What Words Fail Of
by Chewing Gum
Summary: When a candidate for prime minister is found dead in a tent of a travelling carnival, Holmes is summoned to avoid political unrest. Little does he know that the waters run deeper than anyone thinks. Joint fic with KCS.
1. Attending the Funeral

"_I didn't attend the funeral, but I sent a nice letter saying I approved of it." - Mark Twain_

**Watson**

During my lengthy acquaintance with one Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I had learned to appreciate stillness for it happened so rarely that each span of it was cause for a deep exhale.

True stillness did not come with a total absence of cases, for those periods drew Holmes to his cursed drug, but rather they were brief, revivifying days in which one mystery had been solved thoroughly and another had yet to find us. It was a time for Holmes to catch up on missed sleep and nourishment and a chance for me to organize and recopy my notes on the case to be transcribed easily into a full story when the time came for one.

We were in one such state on a sunny May afternoon, Holmes at the table working on a late lunch and picking at the newspaper after waking at ten and I settled in an armchair with a mediocre novel, my usually troublesome leg in as much harmony as it could acquire due to the ideal weather. It was the second day of our repose, and as our last adventure had not been up to Holmes's calibre (by which he meant neither of us required medical attention after the fact), I did not expect it to last much longer. I did not know at the moment that it would only last a few more seconds, however.

Distracted by his ever-amusing agony columns, I had anticipated an order when there was a banging at our door.

"Get that, Watson!" called out the detective, not so much as sparing a glance over the paper. "Mrs. Hudson's out until two, remember."

I might have replied most unkindly if I had been in a poorer mood, but descending the seventeen stairs without cringing seventeen times could be a bit of a treat for me and so I marked my page with a thin strip of paper discard and rose, hurrying down the steps. When I opened the door, a youth with sandy hair thrust an envelope towards me.

"Delivery, sir," he chimed through his pants, quite out of breath but smiling. The lad must have made good time from wherever he came from. "For Mr. Holmes or Watson, he said either or both."

When I accepted the envelope and pressed a few coins into the grinning messenger's hand, I did not need to ask who the elusive "he" was. Even without the keen eyes of my companion I could easily identify the neat, level handwriting spelling out our names with sharply looped letters.

"Letter from your brother, Holmes," I announced, closing the door after the boy had skedaddled and beginning up the stairs with a hurry in my step. I could barely restrain a smile when I heard the hurried scraping of chair on floor; a case from Brother Mycroft was always guaranteed to be a good one.

Boney fingers snatched the message from my hand as soon as our paths crossed and he tore the top off in three swift growls of paper despite the high quality of the stationary. Remnants of the former envelope were rained upon the floor as he took to the sheet itself.

"Well...?" I questioned, not wishing to sound impatient but feeling very much so. Although I had hoped for a day or two more of rest, Holmes's infatuation with the unusual had infected me some time ago and was heightened when whetted.

The devilish grin that appeared on his angled face was enough in expression alone to tell me that this would be the end of our short repose. "Come, old chap, let's get ourselves afoot and down to Barnard Park. This day should be attractive enough to make up for its late start. Grab your coat but leave your revolver. I'll explain in the cab."

I did not know whether to smile or groan. At least my firearm would remain in its desk drawer; if we were to be in any danger, there would be inspectors nearby. As much contempt as Holmes may have for their intellect, a man quick on the draw and trigger can be quite valuable in the very situations we often seemed to end up in.

We managed to make it out the door in under five minutes, three of those were spent hunting about the flat for Holmes's best magnifying glass which turned up in the pocket of the jacket he had worn on our last case, the first place I suggested he look and the place he denied it was in three times over. Mrs. Hudson had arrived home early only to stand aside to allow us to bustle out, sniffing as Holmes offered a mere tip of his hat in explanation.

"Now," I asked once we were settled inside a fast hansom paid in advance, the only kind the Great Detective would travel in if given a choice. "Would you care to explain this or am I to be left in the dark about the matter?"

Holmes grinned, this time less of a mischievous smirk and more of a good-natured smile. He bent his lanky frame to comfort before beginning. "As you could tell by the handwriting, good on you for it, by the way, the note was from Mycroft, requesting our presence now if not sooner at Barnard Park. Now, tell me, what do you know of the place?"

I should have known better than to expect him to cut to the full chase all at once, and I called on my memory of our city, knowing the park better than some. "It's a largely abandoned park, Holmes, owned by the government but not up-kept by it. It's mostly the young boys playing cricket and football that keep the grass tame. It is often used as a rent-free venue for amateur sporting events, less than polished outdoor concerts... Things of that nature."

I knew it largely as a place for the boys to hone their skills with their bats; I had spent at least a handful of days writing on a park bench, enjoying the crack of ball on wood and young, innocent voices cussing like sailors at one another. Everyone had one way of erasing the years for an hour or so, after all.

"Correct, as you can be from time to time. Do you know what is being hosted there currently?"

"I cannot say I do, Holmes," I admitted. I had learned to ignore his jabs and knew from experience that protesting them would only draw further prods.

"I must say that I only do because I did much skulking about the drabber parts of town in days past and saw the posters. A carnival is there at the moment, Watson, to leave about this time tomorrow meaning they would be packing things in at this moment. They say their staff is authentically gypsy, but by the tone of the affair I doubt many actual Roma are involved in the management."

"So what has happened there?" My impatience was beginning to breed as we began to clatter a bit more, progressing from the well-maintained streets to the much-neglected roads and progressing into the transition from a prosperous, refined city into a dismal slum. Barnard Park was caught between the two; enough of a disgrace to attract gypsies, but too regal to keep them there.

"What do you know of the name Bradford Mason?"

This took me aback. Mason was competing in this year's election against Prime Minister Gladstone and by the headlines in the papers, it looked as if he were to give him a fine jog. Gladstone's entire reputation hinged on him being iron-fisted and stone-faced to the point that our own Queen had expressed dislike of him, and yet he managed to get things done in a neat, final way. Mason, on the other hand, had emerged the fresh-faced, amiable friend of the everyman. He was gaining popularity, and there were the start of murmurs about how our country would be if such a joker were to stand at the helm of our Parliament.

"I know as much about anyone who's read the papers, Holmes. What of him and this case?"

Instead of an answer, the detective opened the carriage door as the hansom rolled to a stop outside the park, already swarmed and patrolled by plainclothes inspectors and uniformed police, jumping out and gesturing me to follow.

I had little choice but to do so.

The place was both a literal and figurative circus. Women both Roma and white in the outlandish cloth of gypsies were being herded away barking and swearing by thinly-worn officers, many employees were being interviewed, and there were a number of shouts coming from the cloth tent that, by the quality of it in comparison to the others, belonged to whoever was in charge of the nomadic group.

I followed Holmes through the chaos to a black tent pitched near ominous, overhanging trees. I wondered why on earth someone would place it in such a spot until I saw the banner and the cardboard propped in front of it. _The Half-Dead Girl! Come to the only funeral where the corpse will bow to her mourners!_ The poster showed a tiny creature from the waist up reclined in a coffin, funeral veils hiding its face. The morbid aura of the structure sent a small chill down my spine.

Heading towards the same tent from the opposite direction was a familiar face and an unfamiliar one. The first was the imposing person of Mycroft Holmes, massive in both height and width, ever immaculate and surveying the scene through watery yet uncharacteristically frantic eyes. The fact that he was there made the gravity of the situation apparent.

The later was a man I was unacquainted with; a slender man somewhat lacking in height and looking all the smaller scrambling after the supposed auditor with the air of one in a subservient position. He was in his very early thirties, his clothes were neat but inexpensive, his rowan hair was groomed but resisting it and his round glasses were threatening to fall off his face but were always pushed up at the last minute.

"Dr. Watson, you've yet to meet Mr. Trevor?" asked the huge man, not bothering with trivial social niceties. Without waiting for my confirmation, he gestured towards the man flitting after him with an armful of papers. "Dr. Watson, this is James Trevor, my secretary. Trevor, Dr. Watson. Now let's see what the damage is." Mycroft ducked inside the tent, his brother following at his heels.

Trevor and I were spared a moment to meet eyes, and in that moment he risked a deep inhale, which he released slowly.

"I believe that's the first breath I've taken since Pall Mall," he proclaimed, voice embroidered with weariness. "Well, no sense putting off the enviable, hmm?" He disappeared into the tent before I could ask of him what the inevitable was.

I entered, finding myself hidden from the sun save for small slits of windows once the flap closed and in a maze of dimly lit cloth drapery winding to the heart of the large tent. The floor was only dirt half-heartedly packed but now stirred up. I followed the harried secretary, noting how it darkened as the sun became further away. Finally I found myself in the midst of a funeral.

There was a child-sized coffin at the front with lilies that were obviously cheap cloth replicas in plaster urns. A memorial portrait was displayed in front of the casket showing a fairly pretty little girl. There were candelabras about that looked as if they had never been polished, but someone had brought in several gas lanterns to light the room more adequately.

There was a body, but it was not the child in the portrait. Bradford Mason, friend of the everyman, was face down in the dust with nine bullet holes that I could see in his body.

"Macabre, isn't it?" drawled Mycroft, flipping through a stack of papers handed to him by one of the three inspectors bustling about the innermost chamber. "Good God, what a mess... You were going to vote for him, Sherlock, were you not?"

"Believe it or not, I wished to see what would become of the country if he were in charge," my friend sighed. He was already on his hands and knees, prodding at the body, his grey eyes scrutinizing every square inch of the corpse. "What did this place look like before the inspectors trampled everything up, brother? This dirt would leave lovely footprints."

"As you've likely already deduced, there was either one man with two guns or at least two men that did the deed, but based on the arrangement of the wounds and the limited splatter, I would say there was two against him. Footprints confirm this; there were four sets of clearly distinctive prints, according to this report. Mason's were easy because his soles are more expensive and leave lighter prints, the owner of this tent is a large man and his feet match, an unidentified third was smaller than both of them, and the fourth belong to..." Mycroft paused, huge face furrowing as he looked up to the inspector who had bequeathed him with the papers. "Who exactly is 'Unnamed Child'?"

"I think that's been made my department," spoke up a burly man from the corner I had thought to be a plainclothes but now carried a black bag similar to my own. "I'm Dr. Henson, sirs. And that..." With a small sigh he indicated to a blanket draped about itself in the corner. "Is someone we have yet to identify."

Holmes, ever the curious creature, strode over and with the movements of a child peeking into a jar lifted a fold of cloth to peer inside. We all caught a glimpse of dark eyes that I would have called feral had they not held so much fear, a dirty face with a pair of bruises, and a worn stuffed rabbit clutched in stick-thin arms before the creature yanked the blanket back over her trembling form.

"She was struggling when we first found her so I sedated her," Henson explained, sticking his rough hands in his pockets with a bit of a guilty expression. "I was more concerned she'd hurt herself than anything else. She wasn't hurt in whatever happened here, but... Well, I read your stories, Dr. Watson, and I was in the regiment behind yours in Afghanistan. I haven't seen anything like this since I treated the local civilians there. A few people have told us that Jackyl, the man who ran this tent, has had her for a few years but they don't know where she came from. She's malnourished and bruised, I had to brace her wrist, and I felt a lot of old breaks... He'd been kicking this girl around for a while. It's hard to tell her age, but I'd place her around five. When she came to, she bolted for the corner with that toy rabbit of hers and she's been there since."

I felt my heart and stomach sink, and even the stony face of Mycroft Holmes softened slightly (his secretary, on the other hand, looked downright aghast). "Did she witness this...?" I questioned. It was a special kind of horror for a child so young to suffer such treatment and then have a front row seat to a bloody crime such as this.

"We found her tied up, others have told us..." The man who had been through the same war as I faulted slightly as he spoke, continuing after a sharp inhale and a go-to look. "That was where she usually slept, tied up in here. Jackyl shares a caravan with some others that's being inspected, apparently. She was tied when we got here, she must have seen it all."

"Then she can tell us the second gunmen!" Holmes exclaimed, practically biting at the bit to be let loose on the wrong-doers.

"I'm afraid it won't be so easily, gentlemen. The girl's a mute."

"Post-traumatic stress disorder?" Any army doctor was familiar with shell shock and how much of an affect it could have on anyone, let alone a child.

"A bit more permanent. There's old scar tissue around her upper chest and lower neck, and when she came to she was screaming without sound. Either Jackyl or whoever had her first had her larynx tampered with, likely to keep her quiet during their little act." He held up what looked to be a curved plate of glass. "This is the mask she wore during the show... See all the veins and muscles painted on the glass moulding? Like her face was decomposed. She had to wear this and play dead until he gave her commands. She was kept starved to look like a skeleton."

"And you say she's given no hint towards her name?" rumbled Mycroft, expressionless to the outside observer but I could detect a certain heaviness in his eyes.

"She's drawn that..." the doctor shrugged, gesturing to the pictogram scratched in the dirt in front of the inhabited blanket.

As far as I could make out, one shape was an apple but zigzagging lines sectioned off a piece. There was something wrapped around it with an oval head and points. I jumped when the deep voice of Mycroft Holmes announced "Eve."

"Excuse me?" I blinked, tearing my eyes from the crude drawing.

He waved a large hand over the figures. "You see the apple? She's drawn a bite taken out of it, and the animal around it is the serpent. The story of Adam and Eve, and I doubt very much her name is Adam."

His guess seemed to be correct, for at the sound of her name the blanket was slowly peeled away, the mussed face emerged with the hesitance of a much-beaten dog. She regarded us with wavering brown eyes, grip tight on the equally filthy rabbit clutched in her hands.

"Do you not even know how to spell your own name...?" questioned the elder Holmes as he gazed down on the forlorn little creature.

Her gaunt face setting into determination, she placed finger to the dirt, tracing out three letters. SIN.

If I had been a more emotional man with less experience in the purely awful, I might have felt like crying. "That is not your name," I spoke, keeping my voice as soft as I would with a spooked horse. "Why would you think that it was?"

She crept further from her fashioned nest, revealing the fact that she was dressed in torn and well-faded, ill-fitting clothing. Hesitating greatly, she pulled back the sleeve on the arm that was not bound. There in her arm in scars, someone had carved out SIN neatly in her skin.

I did not have much time to pity the girl before me, for an inspector burst into the tent and sent Eve scampering back into her hideaway. "Sirs! Some of our men just apprehended someone who was trying to get into this... structure. He had a gun and got off two shots; we were forced to kill him. He has documents on him meant for Mason and there are traces around where he emerged that suggest he's not alone."

"They're eliminating the only witness," murmured Holmes, glancing towards the trembling blanket. "We'd do well to get her to an alternative location. Mycroft, your rooms are only five minutes from here if we take the narrow way."

An expression of annoyance flicked across his brother's face, obviously irate at the very suggestion of a grubby urchin and her dirty plaything in his meticulously clean flat, but it soon faded when he nodded, knowing it would have to be done. "Dr. Watson, gather her, would you? No doubt Dr. Henson has other duties here. Trevor, fetch what you can from the inspectors and meet us in my rooms."

Being as gentle as I possibly could so as not to jostle her mending wrist and her tiny form, knowing she could give no indication when her pain worsened, I picked up the blanket my fellow doctor had wrapped around her. The brief moment she allowed her face to be visible, I saw tears in her eyes.

"It will be made right, little one." I was more adept at comforting children after they had received an immunization, not after something quite as dramatic as this, but I did my best and she was asleep before we reached Mycroft's door.


	2. People's Manners

AN: A note; this story is entirely separate from any others, including "The Girl". It is set pre-Hiatus and pre-Mary.

"It is a mistake that there is no bath that will cure people's manners, but drowning would help." - Mark Twain

Watson

"Sherlock, wipe your feet, if you please – I shall not have you tramping mud from that carnival all over my vestibule."

"Mycroft, for heaven's sake!" I hissed, as the bundle in my arms started to stir at his strident tone.

The elder Holmes's ample face flushed as he lowered his voice. The tiny girl in my arms ceased the movement and I saw that her breathing was still even – she had not yet woken up, thankfully.

"Mycroft, do you have a spare bedroom?" I asked quietly as we entered.

"Last door on the left, Doctor," the man replied, indicating it with a wave and then turning back to his brother, discussing government business in a direct tone.

"Watson, I need you to take notes," Holmes called imperiously after me as I started for the bedroom.

"Then you two can wait until I see this poor child is cared for," I stated matter-of-factly, glaring at the brothers.

Mycroft snickered at his younger sibling's exasperated face before lapsing back into his worry over the drama beginning to unfold before us with terrible rapidity.

I put the child on the bed in Mycroft's spare room and covered her with an afghan – she never woke up, but only clutched that dingy stuffed rabbit closer to her as she rolled over, whimpering noiselessly at the pressure on her injured arm.

I set my jaw, infused with a deep abiding anger. The kind of person who would harm a tiny child such as this, especially in such a brutal fashion, did not deserve to even remain alive. I sincerely hoped that the Holmeses would find the man Jackyl before he had a chance to harm the girl again.

I left the door open in case the child awoke, and made my way back through Mycroft's spotless corridor to his sitting room, where he was seated on the settee, staring at his brother. Sherlock was pacing up and down the small room nervously, chafing at the inaction.

"Ah, Watson. Your notebook. Now, Mycroft," the younger Holmes said, flinging himself down at last onto the nearest chair and steepling his fingers, fixing his brother with a piercing gaze.

I sat in another chair, pulling out my journal and a pencil, waiting for the elder Holmes to begin his tale. Mycroft's normally calm face was twitching with unease as he began.

"This is the worst possible drama that could have occurred, and at the worst possible time, Sherlock," the man all but moaned dismally, "Whitehall is buzzing like an overturned beehive, and the entire electoral process is liable to be shaken up and chaos ensue if this matter is not cleared up within the week!"

"Then let us have the facts, brother mine, so that we may attempt to do so," Holmes said impatiently, leaning forward, all attention.

"You know of course that Mason was a very public and very unashamed rival of Gladstone?"

Holmes blinked.

"Yes, Mycroft," I answered.

Holmes followed politics only in the interest of the influence they had on the people of London, most importantly on the justice processes. I was slightly more patriotic and had been following the candidates with considerably more enthusiasm.

The unfortunate murder victim had indeed been a very prominent opponent to the current prime minister and had been quite public about his intentions of overthrowing Gladstone in the next election.

Mycroft explained as much to his younger brother and then continued.

"So you see, Sherlock, what this means!"

"You are implying that the public will suspect Gladstone of being complicit in the murder?" Holmes asked incredulously.

"Of course I am saying that!" Mycroft exclaimed, "it is the logical conclusion, given how tight the race has been in recent months! Listen to me, Sherlock."

Holmes obediently pricked up his ears like a hound listening for the hunting signal.

"We simply cannot afford to have Gladstone's name tarnished in such a fashion, Sherlock. Whether we want him to win the next election or no is a moot point, the policies he has in effect just now are simply vital to the British governmental economy – we _cannot_ afford to lose his influence!" Mycroft's face flushed with earnestness as he looked at his younger brother, who as of yet still looked rather bored with the affair.

"We must erase all impressions that the Prime Minister was in any fashion involved in this dreadful catastrophe, Sherlock," he went on intensely.

"Then why did you call me into this, Mycroft? Surely your powers are equally capable as mine to relieving the Minister of complicity in the murder of his rival?"

"I am needed at Whitehall just now, Sherlock!" Mycroft snapped, even his large patience at an end, "and I have neither the time nor the energy to take over this investigation!"

The brothers' irritated voices had risen without our realizing it, and suddenly from the spare bedroom down the hall a tiny figure came running frantically.

The poor girl's eyes were wide with terror as she looked round at the totally unfamiliar surroundings. Then, seeing my face as I hastily rose from my chair, dropping to one knee in front of her, the child flung herself at me, large tears rolling silently down her bruised and dirty face.

"Now you've done it," I growled, trying to calm the shaking girl but not succeeding very well, glaring daggers at the two Holmeses.

"We have no time to spend in treading lightly, Doctor, girl or no girl," Mycroft said with a slight wave of apology, "we must find out from her where her master is – for it is obviously he who is an integral part in this affair."

"Well for heaven's sake at least attempt to be gentle," I snapped, seating myself there on the floor and trying to disentangle the child's stranglehold.

"Eve," I said quietly, in the tone I used when trying to get a cranky child to take his medicine, "I want you to look at me now. Come along, that's a good girl."

The little one had looked up at me with a tear-stained face.

"You are not in any danger, you are in this gentleman's house," I said slowly and soothingly, "and we are going to take care of you now. But this man needs to ask you some questions, all right?"

The girl looked at me and blinked, and I took that to be an affirmative answer. I picked Eve up and settled with her on the couch beside Mycroft. His portly form seemed to be a little intimidating, and she shrank back into me with a sudden fear.

"It's all right, Eve. We just want to ask you some questions," the elder Holmes said, moving back a little so that she was not staring up at his towering form. The girl remained silent, unblinking, and Mycroft cleared his throat nervously and went on.

"Do you know where Mr. Jackyl is?" he asked.

Vigorous shaking of the head.

"Are you sure you don't know?"

Vigorous nod.

"Eve," Sherlock asked, coming over to the group and crouching on the floor, "can you tell us what happened in the tent this morning?"

"Of course she can't Sherlock," Mycroft snapped, "she –"

"I meant, could she _show_ us, brother," Holmes returned sharply, "she can at least act it out for us!"

The girl shook her head again, shrinking away from the two Holmeses, her unbound arm clutching at my jacket as she started to shake again.

"Can you show us what your master did this morning?" Holmes asked again, leaning in closer.

Eve suddenly began to cry, noiseless whimpers coming from her open but silent mouth, and I could not bear to watch this any longer.

"That is enough, both of you," I snapped, gathering the girl up into my arms again, "she is obviously in no condition to be interrogated in such a heartless fashion."

"Doctor, a candidate for the Prime Ministerial elections has been assassinated, and the entire government is in an uproar over the affair!" Mycroft said in annoyance, "we cannot –"

I was very glad to hear at that juncture a key in the lock of Mycroft's front door, and a moment later the arriving form of Trevor, his secretary.

"Mr. Holmes, I have the papers from that dead intruder's body," he said, without waiting to see if we were otherwise engaged, "and one of them at least says that –"

He stopped, glancing up from the blood-stained sheaf in his hand, and saw the scene before him.

"Oh, I do apologize," he stammered, preparing to withdraw.

"Come in, Trevor, and let us see what you've got," Mycroft growled irritably, sinking back onto the settee.

Eve's sobbing had quieted somewhat now, and I decided she needed to have a break from the Holmes brothers' interrogations.

"Mycroft, I am going to give the child a bath," I told him, "It might be a good idea for one of you to send someone to locate a decent dress for the poor girl."

"Eh?" Mycroft said absently, trying to read a blood-soaked document, "Oh, yes. Trevor, be a good chap, run out and buy the girl a frock."

"Sir?"

"Just do it, Trevor?"

"Yes, Mr. Holmes," the man said nervously, glancing at the brothers, who were already poring over the documents he had brought.

I thanked the man and took the still-shaking girl to the spare bath in Mycroft's other room, running the tub full of clean warm water.

The poor little thing looked absolutely terrified as I began to gently wash the layer of dirt from her hair and then her shoulders, being careful of the injured arm. I gritted my teeth at the sight of the child's abuse, evidenced in a starving body and the blackguard's carving the word 'SIN' on her arm.

But a moment later, I turned even sicker still at the sight of another injury, a large scar on the girl's back, obviously caused by a human hand wielding a knife. I caught my breath, swallowing down my nausea, and stepped to the door.

"Holmes! Get in here!" I snapped.

My friend came running down the hallway, followed more sedately by the elder brother.

"What's the matter?" he asked, glancing past me at the tiny child's frightened form.

I led him into the room and showed him the girl's back – and the horrid scar it held.

His pale face blanched with revulsion, and he turned to his elder brother, who was standing in the doorway.

"What is it, Sherlock?"

"That villain has branded a crude drawing of a cross pattée on the girl's back, Mycroft," his younger sibling said, walking back to the door.

Mycroft's face blanched to match his brother's.

"What is it?" I asked, trying to fight down the nausea in my stomach at the horrible sight.

"A cross pattée, Doctor, is a common setting for Royal Jewels," Mycroft stated, "This girl is more a tool in this affair than even I had suspected as of yet."


	3. Recognizing Defects

"Only a kind person is able to judge another justly and to make allowances for his weaknesses. A kind eye, while recognizing defects, sees beyond them." - Lawrence G. Lovasik

Holmes

"I swear, that Trevor fellow looks closer to a nervous breakdown every time I see him," I commented as the mentioned secretary scampered out of the apartment to do his employer's bidding.

My brother gave a look of disgust at the fresh blood on the page, fishing out some blank paper to lay the documents on top of so as not to spoil his desk's finish. "He's been highly strung since I met him, which makes me question why he stays in his position. I've really got to give him some vacation time when this is all over. This man wasn't top brass in whatever roughneck group he participated in, but it does not look as if he were a mere foot soldier. Take a look at this."

I joined him, frowning as I lifted the letter closer. The writing was not even cursive, and even as printing it was deplorable even compared to my own (which Mycroft has more than once described as vaguely organized scribbling). The paper was of poor quality and dirty, even setting aside the blood. Poor grammar and spelling were rampant. I knew who it was before I saw the crude signature. "Jackyl. And this is addressed to Mason."

"Exactly. Now what on earth would a carnie be doing writing to a possible future prime minister? It's a bit hard to get the gist of the letter when there's red seeping all through it, but it talks about a ruby. From what I can make out, Jackyl seems to know where it is, but if its location is in this letter, its last carrier stained it beyond readability. I can't even see it from the back..."

"Odd that they say 'ruby'. Singular," I mused, suspicion tugging at me but not finding any decent footholds as I worded my random thoughts. "This is obviously no small-time operation, no one would see Mason dead over a single gem unless its size was vast enough. And then we would have heard something of one disappearing..."

A look even I could not quite place dashed across my brother's face, and I was about to question him when I was interrupted.

"Holmes!" rang Watson's voice from my brother's guest bedroom, sounding irate and disturbed. Both were uncharacteristic for him. "Get in here!"

With a quick glance to Mycroft, I did as I was told, half-spiriting down the corridor. It felt odd to be running in my brother's flat; he always kept the place as tidy and solemn as any museum and one felt compelled to act as if they were in one. His room had been the same way when we were children; he must have been the sole young boy in all of Britain who arranged his bookshelf according to the Dewey decimal system.

I met him, glancing easily over his shoulder, thinking perhaps the child had took a fit or something of the like. She was trembling a great deal, but otherwise seemed fine. "What's the matter?"

My dear friend gestured for me to enter which I did with only an ounce of reservation, and I immediately saw what had made him summon me.

The marks were fresher than the carving we had seen earlier and stood out a faded red against her pale skin. No doubt they had been put there less than a year ago. There were twelve strokes in all, four straight and eight curved, and all had been made with deliberate, deep cuts. Although I had never had a particular affinity for children (save for the practical Irregulars, of course), I prayed that the girl had been sedated when they had been made. As individual strokes, they were pointless cruelty. Together, they were brutality with a purpose, albeit an unknown one.

My expression of questioning turned to one of aversion in a heartbeat. I could hear Mycroft, always much slower to respond to anything require physicality, approaching behind me. His heavy footfalls were hard to ignore.

"What is it, Sherlock?" I could hear the confusion in his voice, no doubt at my face. After all I have seen, it took a great deal to shock me.

I turned to face him, exiting the bathroom to allow the girl, now cowering again, her privacy. No doubt she had been gawked at enough in her short life. "That villain has branded a crude drawing of a cross pattée on the girl's back, Mycroft."

The same man who had been reluctant to muddy his apartment with the forsaken creature balked at the horror of the act. And yet... There was something else in there. The moment Mycroft figured something significant out, there was the most subtle of looks in his eyes, yet it was one I had come to be familiar with.

"What is it?" Poor, kind-hearted Watson sounded physically sick at this new revelation. Perhaps he was. I did not entirely blame him.

"A cross pattée, Doctor, is a common setting for Royal Jewels," my brother explained, voice oddly reedy, telling me my deduction had been correct. "This girl is more a tool in this affair than even I had suspected as of yet."

The good doctor was about to speak but then seemed to remember the girl, looking between the pair of us before heading back into the bathroom and shutting the door behind him. I could hear his soft, cosseted tones comforting the child through the wood, and it was with a heavy heart, for my soul-stricken friend as much as for the wretched creature, that I obeyed Mycroft's wave to follow him back into the main room.

"The next words that come from your mouth better make sense of this godforsaken mess, Mycroft," I warned, dropping my voice as my brother went for the polished liquor cabinet and his huge hands closed around a bottle of good cognac.

"I feel inclined to at first issue a disclaimer." He did not shake as he poured the amber nectar into two crystal tumblers. "The gag order was imposed by the Royal Family itself. I suggested your services at the time, but when Her Highness demands you do something, you do it, or you research the climate of Australia and pack accordingly."

A man could have knocked me over with a feather, and I needed to accept and partake of the glass my brother offered me before I could form words decently enough to even reply. "I think you'd best start at the beginning."

"The story is not overly long so much as uncouth," murmured my huge sibling, taking a nip of the cognac himself. "I am sure that you know of Prince Edward's... behaviour. You always respected the monarchy more than most politicians, no matter how little reason they give to deserve it."

I nodded, arching an eyebrow and wondering exactly where this was going.

"About two and a half years ago, the Heir Apparent had been out at an event with some of his less refined companions and they managed to evade their guards and slip out to more... outlandish parts of the city."

I could not help but give a groan. It was far too easy to picture the scene than it should have been, but so far the prince had seemed to make it his duty to cause trouble for those who attempted to keep the monarchy's appearance streak-free.

"He proceeded to get quite intoxicated, and it was a wonder he was in any shape to make his way back to Buckingham. He threatened one of the guards to let him in the back way without alerting anyone. He..." My brother took another drink and cleared his throat before continuing in strained tones. "He had a lady companion in tow who was most certainly not Princess Alexandra of Denmark."

Had the situation been entirely different, I likely would have laughed, but I merely remained silent.

"According to his account, though God knows how much we can trust that, she was gone by the time he woke up. A week later when the whole thing broke, the guard admitted to letting her back out in fear of his position. It took a week for anyone to realize that someone had pried the Black Prince's Ruby along with its setting out of the Imperial State crown and replaced it with one made of glass and gold-leafed lead. It just so happened to have been left out of its case the night of the prince's indiscretion after it was shown by an overzealous Princess Victoria to visiting French noblewomen."

"It hardly takes a detective to connect the dots..." I mumbled over the rim of my glass. "I have not memorized the setting of all the crown jewels, but I have a good feeling what shape the gold surrounded the Ruby was in."

"A cross pattée," intoned Mycroft, as grim as any pallbearer ever was. "More specifically, an iron cross. My best guess is that Jackyl came in possession of the jewel and someone, or several someones, wished to leave a clue to let others know he had it. Misfortunate Eve was his meal ticket, and not something he would abandon save in grave crisis, and so someone took a knife and made a living 'X marks the spot' out of her."

" ... I believe I came in at the wrong time in that conversation."

The pair of us gave a slight jump. In our discussion, we had not heard the front door open to let in Trevor, a paper-wrapped parcel held out in front of him as if he came bearing frankincense or myrrh.

"I got a few dresses, sir, a nightgown, stockings, shoes, and... closer wear," he offered with a sheepish expression. "I have two sisters and five nieces; I am more well-informed about femininity than I like to be, and I knew the girl had nothing..."

"Good, Trevor, I'd not have known one thing from the other," acknowledged my brother, nodding with a certain curtness. "Do you require reimbursement?"

"I put it on the Whitehall expense account, sir."

"Good man. Though I daresay the actual auditors will have some questions for me when they see this one... Take them to the bathroom, would you, Trevor? Watson is in there with her." When he had gone, Mycroft heaved a heavy sigh. "As you can now see, Sherlock... This situation is getting rapidly out of hand."

My brother always had been one for understating things.

Watson

I had not thought of my insensitivity at calling the brothers in until they had left and Eve was huddled at the front of the huge bathtub, face buried in her hands. I had forgotten that the monster Jackyl had displayed her as a monster for a good portion of her life and she no doubt despised it.

"I am sorry, Eve," I sighed, attempting to comfort her. I saw she had grabbed her toy rabbit from where she had left it propped on the towel rack and now had it with her in the water. It could not hurt it; on the contrary, it might do well to be cleaned also. "But they may be able to connect that... Those scars, to something that will help them catch Jackyl."

She flinched visibly at the mention of his name and again when I touched her back gently, but calmed as I finished washing her and even gave me a hint of a smile when I gave her the soap bar to scrub her rabbit down with. When I lifted her out, the once-clean water might have come from a pothole.

Just as I was wrapping her up in a towel that was more of a blanket to her (and she had wrung out the toy in a hand towel, as par my suggestion, so it would not drip over Mycroft's precious floors) there was a knock at the door.

"Dr. Watson...? It's Mr. Trevor. There are some garments for her. I'll leave them outside the door."

"Thank you, Mr. Trevor." I truly did have thanks for him; putting her back in those filthy rags would no doubt undo the work.

When I fetched and unwrapped the clothes, Eve's eyes grew large and she was almost hesitant to touch the fabric let alone allow herself be dressed in them. Nevertheless, I managed to get her into the undergarments and one of the frocks (an orchid-hued one, a lovely contrast to the girl's dark hair, and good taste on Trevor's part) before she was finally stilled and let me slip the stockings on her with little trouble. I rebound her wrist before freeing her.

"There," I finally smiled, gathering up the wet towels and watching her snatch back her slightly damp stuffed animal. "You look very pretty." Or at least she looked more human than the pitiful creature she had been.

I took her to the kitchen first, fetching the milk bottle from the icebox and handing her a glass of it, coaxing her to drink at least half. While she needed nourishment, solid food would only make her ill for the time being. She had to be eased into eating normally. When I led her back to the brothers, it was obvious we were walking in on the middle of a fight.

"Sherlock, put aside your personality for a few hours, would you!" barked Mycroft, broad face flushed with anger, his voice sending Eve ducking to hide behind me. "We can both agree that protective custody is not an option for a girl that young, and she's taken a shine to Watson. Besides, you have Mrs. Hudson! She's a woman, she... I don't know, she can mother!"

"Put aside _my_ personality!" shot back Holmes, equally incensed. "Ha! You have a spare room when we have none and you have a secretary who seems to have more experience with dresses than with trousers!"

Trevor at least attempted a "Now, see here..." before retreating further back into the sofa. I had a feeling he would sink right into the cracks if he could.

"Trevor is going to be busy tracking down documents, don't look at me that way, man, you'll be getting overtime pay, and it is not his job to look after a child, nor is it mine!"

"I am a consulting detective, not the headmaster of a girls' school!"

"Although I'd hate to part from the girl," I put in, making our presence known to the otherwise occupied duo. "I will be the first to admit that our rooms are hardly a safe environment for a child. Holmes has all his chemicals about, and there's also..." I trailed off, although it was obvious from Mycroft's glare and Holmes's faint blush that they knew I was speaking of my friend's drug. Eve had been through enough without being exposed to that. "221b is barely safe for us to live in, let alone her. And as Holmes has pointed out, we have no extra room."

The younger Holmes gave a look of triumph. "Then it's settled. Don't look so hapless, brother. You've been in the government so long, surely you know how to deal with small children."


	4. Listening to Ones' Enemies

"Listen to your enemy, for God is talking." - Jewish proverb

Holmes

I grinned ruthlessly at my elder sibling's red face as he violently and vehemently protested keeping the girl in his own apartment.

But as Watson said, our rooms in Baker Street were most definitely no place for a child so young, Mrs. Hudson or no Mrs. Hudson. We had firearms, poisons, my drugs, all kinds of things lying about that we had a hard enough time keeping the Irregulars from messing with – we had no time or place for a mere tiny thing like this poor girl.

Mycroft spluttered for a good three minutes while I stood there, tapping my foot, completely ignoring him and waiting boredly for him to finish his tirade. Finally he ceased and glared at me in a look that would have cowed me in childhood but had no effect on me whatsoever now.

"There is no room for discussion, Mycroft," I snapped impatiently, eager to be on my way with Watson to start the chase for this elusive Ruby and the man Jackyl.

My brother moaned dismally and turned to Watson. Eve was clinging to my friend's leg with her good arm, that stuffed rabbit tucked in the crook of the sling of her other. Mycroft started toward the poor girl and she instantly hid behind the Doctor.

I smiled fondly as Watson picked her up gently and started to speak to her soothingly – indeed, the man was really quite a capable doctor, especially for children, and more so than I was accustomed to giving him credit for.

I could not hear what he said to the child, but she threw her good arm round his shoulder and started to cry silently. His hazel eyes looked over the girl's form at my brother and me, and I saw again that sick feeling I knew was turning his stomach at the thought of what the girl had gone through.

"Mycroft," he began, a slight tremor in his kind-hearted voice, "you must make sure she has lots of fluids regularly. Start with milk, and try later to get her to drink some soup. Tomorrow you must try to get her to eat something light, like a couple biscuits."

My brother looked blankly at my friend.

"Starvation cannot just be dealt with on the instant, Mycroft – you must take it gradually," he explained further, patting the girl's back slowly as she cried. He swallowed hard and then continued.

"And you must not make any sudden moves or raise your voice too loudly, for she is a very frightened little girl," he went on softly. I noticed the child had stopped crying and was just lying there against his shoulder, motionless.

Mycroft groaned. "You had better put that all in writing, Doctor," he growled.

"One of you can do that. She is asleep and I am going to put her to bed now," my friend declared, looking meaningfully at me.

And I of course did the appropriate thing and ordered Trevor to write out Watson's instructions.

"I will not have you ordering _my_ secretary around, Sherlock!" my brother snapped. "Well, what are you waiting for, Trevor?"

Watson disappeared down the hall with Eve and a few moments later returned, running a hand uneasily through his hair.

"She will probably sleep for a while, Mycroft. And she likely will be rather frightened when she wakes, so for the love of heaven be gentle!"

I was more than a little surprised at my dear friend's unaccustomed vehemence and also the uncharacteristic shaking in his voice, and I laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. He looked at me with that continued feeling of revulsion that even I was fighting to quash, and I lost no time in getting us both out of that atmosphere into the London air.

I hailed a cab and we both jumped in; then Watson slumped back into the seat without a word, staring out at the city with unseeing eyes. After twenty minutes it finally dawned into my disturbed thoughts that he was too deathly quiet, and I glanced at him, shocked and not a little worried to see unshed tears in his eyes.

"Watson – are you all right?"

"I think I am going to be ill," he returned shortly, swallowing hard.

I sighed and settled back beside him. "We will find the blackguard, Watson, never doubt it," I said in what I fervently hoped was a reassuring voice, "I give you my word. And the girl will be fine with Mycroft, dear fellow, so do try to not worry about it?"

He nodded, stout fellow, and set his jaw as we pulled up in front of 221 Baker Street. I hopped down, tossed a half-sovereign at the cabbie, and sprinted up the steps into the house, flinging my hat in the general direction of the rack in the hall. Then I dashed up the steps, eager to start searching through my files in quest of some documents that would throw light upon the matter at hand.

There had to be some group that would deal in similar matters, I knew there had been several in the past. This theft of the Black Prince's Ruby was not the product of a simple vulgar intrigue brought on by the Prince's rash behaviour – this bespoke of a much more controlled, much more precisely organized organization.

I began without preamble to systematically sort through my files. Watson insisted upon calling my searches for documents 'stirring up a tornado' or some such nonsense, but I always knew exactly what I was looking for and where I was putting everything in my search for it.

But I did have to admit, thirty minutes later, looking about at the strewn files, that perhaps his metaphor had some merit. I was no closer to finding any indications of organizations dealing in stolen Royal jewellery than I had when I began.

I cursed loudly, startling Watson out of his perusal of one of my old scrapbooks. He glanced up at me.

"Nothing?"

"Nothing," I replied irritably, throwing a book across the room in annoyance, "I know there have to have been issues such as this in the past, with other reigning families in Europe, and usually an organization such as this will have some connection with other such like, but I can find nothing."

I began to go through all my scrapbooks once again, searching for any records, and news articles, any case notes that had a similar bent to them, and Watson began to do the same.

After another half hour, we were still sitting on the floor going through files when there was a knock at the sitting room door and our worthy landlady poked her head into the room.

After the initial dressing-down we got from the long-suffering Mrs. Hudson and after promising to clean the mess up before we should be allowed any dinner, the good lady told us that Lestrade was here to see us.

I cursed again; I had absolutely no desire to see the man whatsoever – the last thing I needed at that moment was to be begged to help him solve a petty drunken murder with too much circumstantial evidence and not enough half-wit police brainpower.

But I was given no time to have Mrs. Hudson send him away, for the man had climbed the stairs and was now pushing past her into the room. The Yarder's sallow, ferret-like features suddenly grew pinched as his jaw dropped in shock.

"Mr. Holmes – what the deuce are you doing?"

"Besides wishing you would come back some other time, Inspector?"

"Holmes," Watson said warningly, clearing a path to an armchair so the policeman could sit down. I glared at both of them and went back to my commonplace books.

"To what do I owe the dubious pleasure of this visit, Lestrade?" I asked distractedly, tossing another book aside and starting afresh.

"The Yard sent me over, Mr. Holmes, to check on you about this carnival affair with the dead Ministerial candidate," the man replied, for once giving me a straight answer.

I stopped and looked at him, raising my eyebrows.

"So, you lost the draw when they doled out the 'make sure Mr. Holmes doesn't cause a scandal' duty, is that it?" I asked, a sardonic smile creasing my face.

I heard Watson snicker rather undignifiedly behind me as Lestrade's sallow face flushed beet-red.

"I – I am sorry, Mr. Holmes, but I have been told to serve you with this," the man said nervously, handing me a piece of paper. I glanced at it, and felt my own face flush, but with ire, not embarrassment.

"A waiver? I most certainly am not going to just let the matter drop, Lestrade!" I snapped, "there is more to this business than you have been told, and I certainly take no orders from the police!"

How dare they? I am Sherlock Holmes – I take no orders or even advice from anyone other than my own conscience. And occasionally Watson's. I was not about to accept an order to keep my nose out of the Mason assassination.

Lestrade shrank back into his chair at the sight of my angry face.

"Mr. Holmes, I was not involved in the order," he hastened on to explain, "I just had to poor luck to be chosen to bring it to you! I honestly, well, I didn't do it myself! But I cannot argue with my superiors!"

"To blazes with your superiors!" I growled, as I threw another book aside in annoyance, taking pleasure in seeing the little Yarder cringe, "I take orders from no one!"

"Mr. Holmes, if you start causing a scene here, I could be in a huge amount of trouble!" the man gasped, and I was rather meanly glad to see him looking rather scared.

I was about to toss away my third book when Watson scooted across the floor and grabbed it out of my hands, fixing me with one of those looks that were the only thing that could possibly make me be kind to a less-than-average intelligence police inspector. I sighed, defeated, and glared at him before turning my gaze back toward Lestrade.

"I have orders from higher powers than the superintendent, Lestrade," I explained patiently as I could, "and as such I cannot remain silent about the case. There is no room for discussion."

"But, Mr. Holmes!"

"I said there can be no argument, Inspector!" I snapped, going through a pile of old case files on the floor.

"What if – what if I gave you a piece of information, Mr. Holmes – that would help you in your search. Would you then stay out of the public investigation?" the hopeful tone of the official's voice slowly worked its way into my thoughts.

I raised my head as the words registered in my preoccupied mind – Lestrade, subverting the processes of law and order to aid an amateur? That was a novelty, and he had sufficiently captured my attention. I looked at him, not blinking, to see what he had to say.


	5. Governing Mankind

"All who have meditated on the art of governing mankind have been convinced that the fate of empires depends on the education of youth." - Aristotle

Watson

My role as a doctor and my role as the assistant to a detective have become so overlapped over the years that it is often hard to tell where one career ends and the other begins. That day, however, I was very aware of the break; when I stepped through the doors of 221b I was an assistant again and knew I had to leave my doctor's heart back on Pall Mall if I was to be any use at all to Holmes.

When Lestrade came in, I braced myself for a storm. When the inspector declared his purpose, I spotted it immediately. Truth be told, this imposed gag order was not something I relished myself, but I could see why the affair would want to be kept quiet. If, as Mycroft had told us, Whitehall was already turned upside down, they would be floundering for any damage control they could get.

Lestrade bending British law was something akin to the sky raining ash; it did not happen very often at all, and when it did happen you paid attention.

Holmes's expression immediately went from extremely irate to vaguely interested, and although he did not speak I knew that this tentative expression was a gesture to continue and I glanced at Lestrade to inform him of that much.

"This... Well, I'll use the word lady out of practicality and not truth, was brought into the station about six months ago floating about on something or other, all those drugs make a person soft in the head. I got the wrong lot and was working the station that night, and the boys had picked her up on charges of being a... courtesan. Like you probably know, it'd grind the wheels of justice down to try every strumpet that gets dragged in there, so we usually just keep them a night and toss them back out..."

My friend snorted with a roll of his steel eyes. "I am sure that is quite effective."

I wondered briefly who in their right minds would ever think that one night in a cell would deter anyone from re-offending. One part of me despised any woman so willingly offering themselves up to anyone with coin, but another part pitied the creatures of the night who may not have had any other choice.

"Anyway, this particular woman was hollering at the top of her lungs for half the night before she got tired and passed out. At the time I took it as gibberish and lies, but now... I may not be you, Holmes, but I have my methods of getting into restricted files. I know about the Ruby."

Holmes was leaning forward now, obvious interest spread across his sharp visage. "What did she say, Lestrade...?" His voice was almost a reverent whisper, and I could nearly hear his silent prayers for a lead.

"She claimed to have been hired for the night by Prince Edward and brought to Buckingham Palace. Do you blame me for not telling anyone else? It sounded ridiculous, nothing short of blasphemous. But when I helped myself to some files that I found and saw what happened to the Black Prince's Ruby..." He trailed off, looking hopefully towards Holmes, no doubt wishing that this information would persuade even Sherlock Holmes to keep quiet, something he was not fond of doing.

"I may regret asking this, Inspector," I began slowly, the pieces beginning to fall into place with a single gap. "How on earth did you know _we_ knew about the Ruby's absence?"

Lestrade's narrow shoulders shrugged. "The other Mr. Holmes's name was mentioned several times in these papers, so he obviously knew. If Holmes isn't willing to leave matters in the hands of the Yard, why would his brother be?"

Holmes reclined slightly, one of his most insufferable smirks proudly displayed. "So you admit that your own organization is heavily populated by idiots?"

His face flushed with pure indignation. "_Hardly_, Holmes, but... I will admit that this case may need a slight hand rather than a hundred clenched fists. The woman's name is Sara Rose, or that's what she claimed it was, and she was picked up outside the Daming Hotel down on Roterbury Street."

The detective launched himself from his chair. I knew that expression all too well and I did not like it a single bit. This whole affair had gone from excitement to a health hazard in the blink of an eye. Face both thoroughly noble and meaning no good, Holmes snatched the waivers from a stunned Lestrade.

"I must say, Inspector," he commented as he fished a pen from the mess he had created and marked the page with an abomination of a signature before tossing it and the second form my way. "You are very lucky we are honest men; you gave us all you knew before even having us sign."

His face flushed red again, and once I had placed my scrawl on the appointed line he seized the papers back and stormed down the seventeen stairs and out the door without another word.

"Just because we must be quiet about it does not mean we must be inactive, Watson," Holmes smiled, his grin only broadening at the furious slamming of the door. "Fetch your revolver, would you? We're heading for Roterbury Street at once."

I blinked, looking outside where dusk was beginning to dominate dawn. I had not realized how long we had been sifting paper. "But it's nearly dark, Holmes!"

"What better time to find this Miss Rose? I request the presence of your revolver as a mere precaution, old friend, now come! Before Mrs. Hudson finds this mess!"

**Mycroft**

As soon as Sherlock and the doctor left, I sunk into an armchair, my fingers pinching at the bridge of my nose where an amazing migraine was beginning to lay down roots. "Trevor, what in god's name am I supposed to _do_?" I hissed, not wanting to risk the slightest chance of waking the child up.

"Well, sir..." he suggested, his mild voice rising slightly into rare suggestiveness. "I could watch the child and someone else could fetch whatever you require."

"An admirable try, but not a successful one. I trust no one else but you with this. You're to take the train to Calhoun's abode at once," I ordered, setting my glare into one of a lower intensity that I used on Sherlock.

"Oh, sir..." He was descending dangerously close to a whine. But then, the poor chap did look overtired. Come to think of it, I believe I had him up the night before on something or other. I really did have to take it a bit easier on him; once you lose one employee to mental weakness, no one wanted to work for you. "I despise Mr. Calhoun and you know that."

"He has reformed, Trevor, you have my guarantee on that. He has helped me resolve more misdemeanours than he ever committed himself."

"Each time I see him, he tells me what I would be worth in tobacco in a prison, sir."

"He only teases you because he knows he can; just keep a stiff upper lip." I heaved myself from the deep armchair, going to my desk to write out some quick requests for my contact. "Just bring this to him and ask him if he knows of anyone fencing a large ruby in the last two years." I paused, something springing to mind. "Oh... And ask him who the big players are in the white slave trade nowadays... That girl had to have come from somewhere and everyone questioned at the carnival doubted Jackyl was her father."

With great weariness, the man nodded and accepted the letter once I had sealed it in an envelope. "Yes, sir. I'll likely be back around eleven, would you like anything I gather brought here?"

"No, just leave them in my office, I'll pick them up in the morning." I paused, seeing the premature lines at the corners of his eyes. "Oh, and Trevor...?"

He cringed ever so slightly, no doubt expecting more tasks. "Yes, sir?"

"Once you're done with that, go home and get some rest. Two days off, paid of course, will be adequate?"

One could have read a book in the pitch black by the glow of his face. "Sir...? One day would be..."

"Sufficient, no doubt, but I am giving you two. Do not look a gift horse in the mouth, Trevor, and get going. Calhoun hates to be disturbed too late at night."

Gathering himself up a bit but still smiling, he gave an attempt at a solemn nod. "Thank you, sir. Oh...! Before I forget..." He drew a cardboard package from his inside pocket, placing them on my desk. "I picked these up as well when I was out. Crayons, sir, something to keep the girl amused. Children often draw what they feel... She might produce something of use."

I was a bit surprised at his perception, but then again he seemed to have a great deal more experience with children than I. "Excellent work. I knew I hired you for a reason. Now get going or you'll miss the hour's train."

With another nod, he soldiered out the door.

I myself sat down at my desk, knowing I had more than a few letters to write. Mostly damage control, although when I considered letting the Royal Family's affair managers that Sherlock was in the midst of sniffing out the missing Ruby, I decided against it. Although I am hardly a "rebel" or a "vigilante", I had gotten more slaps on the wrist from the Royals than I cared to admit. Possibly because all the dirty work must go through me and often dirt can only be resolved with dirt.

What felt like every thirty seconds I glanced over my shoulder, listening for any signs that the girl had woken. I wished she would sleep through the night but I sincerely doubted that would happen. It was a bit unsettling to think that there was a fragile little creature in my guest bedroom that I had no control over. Usually it was occupied by an entirely different breed; in times of extreme crisis Whitehall assigned a bodyguard to me, and after numerous complaints from them after sleeping on the settee I broke down and had the spare room turned into a bedroom.

Eventually, however, I stopped listening and concentrated on my work more thoroughly to stop myself from going mad. I recopied the letter from Jackyl to Mason and attempted to fill in the blanks made by the bloodstains but found it impossible. I did not know how long I had been cross-referencing the letter with other documents when a sharp rapping on the wall nearly made me jump out of my skin.

I turned to see Eve, half hiding in the corridor, perpetually present rabbit in one hand, tittering noiselessly at having startled me. My unintentional glare must have followed, however, for her smile quickly vanished and she ducked back behind the wall.

"Eve, you do not need to be afraid," I spoke, doing my best to sound gentle as I rose. "Nothing is going to hurt you here."

Her face reappeared, but she looked rather sceptical, to say nothing of fearful. I could not blame the poor thing; she had no reason to trust anyone and I have been known to be intimidating to full grown men.

"The doctor says you need to drink something." I gestured for her to come forward, and she crept up to me but still kept her distance as she followed me into the kitchen. Her tiny footsteps sounding vaguely rodent-like on the hardwood. Once I had poured her a glass and held it out to her, she seemed reluctant to take it. "Come on, now, it's not poisoned."

There was that sceptical look again, the little devil. Although I knew it was nothing against me so much as the human race in general, I was rather tired of my aplomb demeanour being taken as evil. She did drink a bit of it, however, before looking up at me as if asking if she should finish.

"Drink what you can, but don't make yourself sick," I replied (but was it truly a reply if she had not actually asked anything?), and watched her take one more small sip before holding it back out to me. "You don't need to do anything you do not want to," I explained further, putting the glass back in the icebox for her to finish later. "As I said before, I will not harm you."

I could read her next expression quite clearly, and it said "Well, what now?" That was a question I did not entirely have an answer to, but then I recalled the crayons. Then I recalled the crude apple with the string snake entwined around it.

"Come, Eve. I'd like to show you something." I led her to the table, gesturing to a chair.

She quickly scrambled up into it, but the top was too far up for her to even see over and she shot me a look that told me she was nowhere near amused.

"Alright, alright, just a moment. Slip down." I went to my expansive bookshelf, not looking for quality but rather quantity. The thickest book there was titled "A History of European Wine Tax, Edition Twenty-Three". It was quite possibly the only one on the shelf that I had not read and I could not even remember how it had gotten there. Nevertheless, I selected it, placed it on the chair, and gently lifted Eve up onto it so that she could reach the tabletop. I could not believe how light she was, even for her small size. There seemed to be nothing to her.

Noting her shell shocked expression, I cringed. I had forgotten the part about no sudden movements. "My apologies. But I did not hurt you, correct?" A nervous nod confirmed this. "Now keep your balance on this, a concussion is the last thing you need." Keeping an eye on her, I fetched the crayons Trevor had left as well as a sheaf of paper. "Put that bunny aside for a few moments and I'll show you something."

If I was to have any influence on this creature at all, she was at least going to learn to write her own name.


	6. Much More Important

"My dear young lady, there was a great deal of truth, I dare say, in what you said, and you looked very pretty while you said it, which is much more important" - Oscar Wilde

Mycroft

"Now, put that bunny aside and I'll show you something," I said, indicating the chair beside the girl.

I was met with a firm denial in the form of a tiny shaking head.

"Eve, put the rabbit down – you need your hand for this!" I said, taking a deep breath and reining in my annoyance.

Another shake, more firmly.

"Look, you can put him right here and he can sit beside you," I said.

The girl's only response was to look dubiously down below her at the chair.

I sighed wearily – why hadn't Watson taken the girl with him, for heaven's sake?

I got up and grabbed another thick book at random, putting it in the chair beside the child. I was rewarded with a tiny smile as she set the bunny down on the volume, now on level with her at last.

"Good girl. Now, I want to show you this," I said, setting the paper and Trevor's crayons on the table between us, rubbing my temples nervously at the thought of spending my next hour teaching this child how to scribble.

She looked indifferently at the cardboard box, obviously not knowing what the items were.

"Look," I said, opening the thing and pulling out a crayon – it happened to be purple – "You see?"

She looked questioningly at me.

"You are making this rather hard on me, you know that?"

The girl tittered again, obviously understanding all too well my annoyance. Before I could stop her, she had picked up the box of crayons and dumped a rainbow of bright colors all over the table.

I was not about to remove my ponderous bulk to dive for the ones that were tumbling off the edge – the child would just have to colour without the aid of sky blue and yellow.

Eve laughed at my face as I began to scramble to prevent the others from falling off the desk, lining them up in front of her.

"Oh, dear Lord. Now, Eve, you know how you drew for me in the tent at the carnival?" I asked, at least outwardly patient.

She nodded, the smile leaving her face now.

"Well, you can use these to draw on paper. See?" I said, demonstrating by rubbing the purple crayon over the paper.

The girl bent over the foolscap to inspect it eagerly and her eyes grew wide. Then, grabbing a blue crayon, she began to scribble over my purple markings. I absently wondered what my superiors would say if they walked in at the moment, finding me coloring a picture with a five-year-old little girl at my large desk.

"Now, Eve, I am going to teach you to write your name," I said, picking up the black crayon.

She grinned at me and quickly drew that same picture of an apple and a snake.

"No, no. This is how you write your name, in letters," I said, demonstrating by printing a neat EVE underneath her drawing.

She frowned and scribbled the word out with her blue crayon.

I sighed – this was going to be a long afternoon.

After twenty minutes of cajoling, I finally got her to attempt to copy the word, making a shaky but legible three letters underneath the picture.

"Good," I said in immense relief, "now, Eve. I want you to write that ten times, and then you may color whatever you wish."

The child grinned at me, suddenly grabbing her bunny and handing the dingy animal to me – a peace offering? Or a thank-you?

I decided upon the latter and managed to keep my exasperation off my face.

"Thank you," I said, "he will be just fine right here watching you, eh?"

I set the rabbit down with alacrity – it was still damp and not yet clean – by her paper, and she looked at it studiously and then picked up the brown crayon and began what looked to be a very passable long-eared specimen of the animal kingdom.

I distractedly realized that she had not tried again to write her name, but I was in no mood to force the issue – as long as she was occupied, that was all I cared about at the moment. The girl's scribbling was shaking the table but not enough to be a real bother, so I stayed there, going back over the documents the child had interrupted.

For close upon an hour I tried once more to decipher the blood-soaked letter, piecing together bits of the other documents, but to absolutely no avail. I had just wasted a good portion of my time.

I rubbed my head wearily as I set the papers down, and suddenly I was assailed by a stack of colourful artwork from the girl next to me.

"That's very nice, Eve," I said automatically, barely glancing at the oversized rabbit drawing on the top and taking a peek at the next page.

Then I caught my breath suddenly – on the very next page was a childish scribbling of that cross pattée – how had the girl known what that setting even was?

I felt my brow furrowing as I flipped through the other drawings, coming across one of the same jewel setting – and the girl had coloured the jewel in the pattée a deep red, obviously pushing down hard on the crayon to create a bright red color.

She had seen the Ruby at some point.

The next page had a scribbling of two stick figures, one of them holding an oversized ruby.

"Eve, who are these men?" I asked, forgetting the child could not speak.

She grabbed her stuffed rabbit and held it close, looking at me uneasily.

"These are very good drawings," I said quietly, wishing for Watson's ability to inspire instant trust, "is this your master and that Mason chap?"

I was pleased to get a small nod.

"How many times did Mason come to see Mr. Jackyl?"

The hand uncurled from the rabbit and two tiny fingers waved in the air.

"Two times?"

Another nod.

"Can you show me what they said to each other, how they acted?" I asked, pushing the paper back over to her.

The girl's forehead wrinkled, looking worriedly at me, and she inspected her choice of colors for a moment while I waited impatiently.

She at last selected the black one and the red one and began to randomly scribble hard over the men's faces, looking up at me with an expression of fear.

"They were angry?" I supplied.

Another nod.

"Were they yelling at each other, arguing?"

The girl nodded, hugging the rabbit again with her good arm after letting the crayons fall.

I riffled through the papers until I came to the crude rendering of the Ruby and then held it up for her to see.

"Did you ever see this, Eve?" I asked slowly and calmly, for the girl was starting to get uneasy.

Her eyes widened, and she nodded vigorously.

"Do you know where it is now?"

The child shook her head, starting to tremble again, and again I heard Watson's warning ringing through my mind about not going too fast with the girl. I sighed and pocketed the two drawings I knew to be of importance, handing the girl a blank piece of paper.

"Very good, Eve. You are a brave girl," I said, trying to put what I hoped was a reassuring smile on my face, "and thank you. Now you go ahead and draw whatever you would like."

The girl giggled wordlessly and pointed at me.

"Me? You are going to draw me?" I asked, feeling a wave of dismay.

The child giggled again and bent over her task, and I moaned – the drawing was already starting to look deucedly unflattering. I dearly hoped Sherlock was having a more productive and less stressful afternoon.

Watson

If Mycroft despised dirt, Roterbury Street would likely have sent him into a fit. The cobblestones on the main street were in dire need of repair that would not come any time soon, and the sidewalks, populated by haggard men in tattered clothes, were a lost cause altogether.

The Daming Hotel did well to blend into the environment of chipped paint and rotting siding, although one could tell it was moderately more successful than many of its neighbours only because both its front windows still had the frosted glass, unbroken and free of cracks, in the frames. The hanging sign, groaning like a banshee in the wind, had once been painted in regal letters but now gave only the barest hint that we were at the correct establishment.

"Come along, Watson," Holmes called after me as he all but launched himself from the hansom. "Keep your wits about you in a place like this. Lord knows you may find yourself distracted."

I knew he was only tormenting me, but I still felt a flash of indignity at the suggestion implying I would be attracted to this breed of woman. I was quite thoroughly a gentleman and as such found my interest in ladies, not the painted females that populated hotels such as this.

Most of our senses were assaulted immediately upon entering the ragtag building. I was nearly bowled over by the overpowering reek of cheap perfume, the sounds of a piano (sounding badly tuned even to my tone-deaf ears), the dim lighting that cast shadows that were both inviting and repelling, and saw battered tables, men with glasses of unidentifiable liquid, and several women peppered about the room in dresses that would make many of my female patients take a swoon. At the moment, it was an appealing prospect for myself.

Holmes, slum explorer extraordinaire, did not seem phased by it but merely cast a baleful look towards several of the more scantily clad women before approaching the older woman, painted like her women but dressed much finer, behind the chipped and splintered desk. "Madame, we are looking for a specific lady."

The woman, seasoned although I doubt she was beyond forty, gave the knowing smirk of someone who has seen nearly everything there was to see under the sky through a thick layer of scepticism and filth. "Not a problem, sirs, but you might have a wait. Doubt it though, the night's just beginning. It's pay and a half for two of you."

My face no doubt turned redder than the scarlet letter many of the ladies in the establishment would have been forced to wear several hundred years ago. "We've come to talk to her, Madame, about a crime," I managed to sputter out through my mortification.

She gave a world-anxious shrug. "It's none of my business what you've come to do with one of my girls, it's going to add up to a full sovereign either way. Who are you going to be wanting?"

Before I could speak further and no doubt amuse this smirking woman more than I already was, Holmes nudged me aside to deal with her himself. "A Miss Sara Rose is the one we need. It shouldn't take too long."

"Full sovereign and a half, sir," she replied, an unrelenting grin upon her lined face. "Miss Sara's one of our finest."

With an overly dramatic roll of his eyes, Holmes fished the gold coin and two crowns out from his pocket and tossed them upon the counter. I believe it was more the principal of the thing than the actual currency. "Where can we find her?"

The madam consulted a finely-kept ledger before her. "She's free right now. Room 228. Edgar will show you up."

I opened my move to ask who Edgar was, but closed it beyond firmly when a man that towered over even Holmes and was likely three times as thick descended the staircase.

Beady eyes scanned us before a hand not far from the size of a spade gestured for us to follow up the stairs that creaked under our weight and screamed under his. We passed rows of doors, some dented or marked up but each labelled with a tiny brass plaque containing a number. When we reached the plaque that read 228, our guide knocked on the door.

"Enter," called out an energetic voice from the other side, and when Holmes swung the door open it was to reveal a woman of average height but ideal proportions (ideal for her profession, mind, not for a proper woman), along with a scalp populated with the most fiery red hair I've ever seen. Face, adorned with golden freckles, was set in a welcoming smirk as she reclined on the room's chaise lounge.

"Good evening, gentlemen," she greeted, smiling as she rose, sending her thin dress pleating about her ankles. Unlike most dresses, it dipped at the neck rather than covering it entirely and I found myself having to stare at the floor rather than at her. "Welcome to the Daming Hotel. What did you have in mind tonight...?"

I now knew how Eve had felt and found myself edging behind Holmes. The rising ranks of feminists were always saying that men feared women in power. This was not the case with me, but all the same I was wary of this unwholesome creature.

"Your fare will be easily earned for the moment," Holmes spoke, voice sterile and calm as if this were a lady client come to call. "All we want from you is information."

Her ginger brow lowered slightly in confusion and a hand crooked on her hip. "Is this some kind of game you want to play? Because I really do need to know the rules. That sort of thing it's my speciality but I'll give anything a shot."

"Do you know no shame!" I could not help but snap, glaring at this temptress.

"Fortunately for my purse, no. If you're looking for shame and repentance, you'll be better with Rita."

"This is no game, Miss Rose." My companion was standing steadfast, stony-faced and calm. "We understand you were picked up by the police some time ago and you said something about having been a client of Prince Edward."

Her expression changed from one of questioning to one of understand. "Oh! Oh... You're not inspectors, are you? If I'd been sober I wouldn't have said that, no matter how true it is."

"I assure you quite thoroughly that we are not inspectors. Can you tell us what happened that night, miss?"

Sashaying back to flop down on the chaise once more, she shook out her red mane before beginning, sending me to take out my notebook and pen and jot the gist of her words down. I was glad to have something else to concentrate on.

"Write this down, I want these men to feel some heat. This man came in about three years ago, a fellow who said his name was Freddy Hyde but might have been lying. Other people, I'll get to them eventually, called him that, too, though. He told me in a month there'd be a party and that Prince Edward was there and I'd be paid a whole lot to make sure he took me home. I thought that'd be impossible, but they told me they'd take care of him. I saw them the night of the ball, too, and every drink they gave him had some sort of powder in it. Must have made him foolish. You're writing this down, aren't you?"

"You were at the ball?" Holmes interrupted, frowning. "I was told he picked you up outside."

"You think he'd admit to the amount of us nobles hire for their little get-togethers? Anyway, this Hyde gave me a tiny little needle in a glass vial and said all I needed to do was hide it in my sleeve and prick the guard who let us in. Promised it wouldn't hurt him, just send him to sleep. I felt a little uneasy about all this, of course, but the money they promised me... Well, I can't do this forever, can I? A sum like that would make my nights in this room last a lot shorter. That was all I had to do, see, prick the guard, spend the night with the prince, and take off the next morning. That's all I did."

I looked up in surprise, forgetting my embarrassment for a moment. "You didn't take the Black Prince's Ruby...?"

She scowled, crossing her arms. "I didn't take anything! I'm no saint, but I'm not a common thief. Anyway, that was supposed to be the end, but then Hyde came back, told me his boss wanted to meet me personally, that he was a big spender. Well, a weekend in the country before I got my pay... They brought me all the way out there and it turns out he changed his mind. They carted me back to London with that dolt Jackyl and they all disappeared and I never got my wage, which explains why I'm telling you all I can..."

"Jackyl," Holmes interrupted, his ears all but pricking up like those of a terrier. "You met Jackyl?"

"Yeah, and what a piece of work he is. He hauled back a girl with him from Sinclair's manor, too, only a tot, maybe... Two? Hard to tell at that age. Didn't Hyde and him treat her something awful... At the manor they'd put her just a foot from the tied fighting dogs, let them bark and slobber at her and she'd sob..."

I felt my stomach churn. _Eve, poor thing, where on earth did you come from...?_ "We know who the girl is. She is safe now. Who is Sinclair?"

"Oh, he was the boss. Michael Sinclair. I never saw him, though. Jackyl said he never did, either. The manor was outside Derby, but I saw in the paper it was burnt down a year ago. He must have others. I swear to you, that's all I know. I want them caught as much as you must." For the first time, Sara Rose looked regretful as she leaned her head back. "You said that kid's safe? Good. I'm not a good person, far from it, but something like that's nothing short of bloody cruel, and a real man never stiffs anyone that much money, especially not a woman."

"Thank you for your help, Miss Rose. We will do all we can to find these men. Come, Watson." Holmes rapidly departed and I all too greatly followed him. We were silent until we were out of the inn altogether.

"We need to find these men, Holmes," I whispered. I could still feel the tiny broken form of the cast-out angel trembling in my arms.

He clapped me on the shoulder, trying to be as much of a comfort as he knew how to be. "We will, dear friend. We will."


	7. The World's Thy Jail

"Be thine own palace, or the world's thy jail." - John Donne

Watson

When we had returned to our flat, Holmes had retreated to his desk to study a pile of scrapbooks and I took the opportunity of the stilling of the hurricane to begin to tidy the flat. I finished making the place decent quite late and went to bed. Holmes spent the rest of the night undoing my work before doing the same.

I was up first and therefore had to face the rage of Mrs. Hudson when she brought our breakfast up. It was only by explaining the nature of the case that I extracted sympathy from her, and then I wished I had no told her for she looked so downtrodden at the providence of poor Eve. It had at least saved us from eviction...

Holmes joined me for breakfast on a table that had more paper than wood to it. While we ate (although for every bite he took, he seemed to down half a cup of coffee), he brought me up to level. He had found Hyde's name in some old articles. The man had been arrested less than a year ago for selling counterfeit opium and running a common betting house. He had operated out of a huge place that had once been grand but had fallen to ruin along with those around it, keeping an opium den on the ground floor, cards on the top floor, and a kennel and dog fighting ring in the cellar.

"This," Holmes explained, pointing out the articles to me as he all but twitched in his seat. "Is perfect. Miss Rose said Hyde had access to the dogs. She called them guard dogs, but they may not have been. Even if they were, the treatment towards the animals sounds similar. He was arrested with several other men. Obviously none of them were the second gunman, but they may be involved with this Sinclair and it was implied Hyde has had contact with him at some point."

My heart was heavy thinking of the poor wretched animals forced to fight to the death in that cold, damp cellar. "What do you propose we do, Holmes?"

"I propose we take the girl to the jail to see these men and see if she can recognize them. If she's seen them since Miss Rose did, Jackyl was most certainly still in cahoots with the villains."

Just as we were finishing, there came a knock on the door. When I answered it, I was met with a smiling Eve and a puffing, weary Mycroft. The former immediately found her old place attached to my leg when I let them in.

"You look a little tired, brother," Holmes remarked with his usual wryness as his brother gave his brow a quick wipe with his handkerchief. "And not only from the stairs."

"I spent the better part of the afternoon playing with crayons. Mrs. Burgess..." Seeing my puzzled look, he continued with "My housekeeper. Of sorts. Comes in the evening and morning to cook and cleans thoroughly every third day. Not the most talkative person, which I enjoy. In any case, she came afterwards, took one look at the little creature and started hollering that when she took the job she took me as a gentleman, that I had no business siring spawn left and right that wouldn't be taken care of... Scared the hell out of Eve, took me half an hour Mrs. Burgess calmed down and another hour to get Eve to come out of the blasted closet. The only thing I even accomplished last night was teaching her how to write her name. She wouldn't repeat it when I asked her to, but the next morning it was in sky blue crayon all over two of my ledgers!"

I sighed, exhorting great will power to keep a smile from my face (Holmes, unrestrained, was chortling), as I gently pried the child off my leg and lifted her up, noting Mycroft had not succeeded in separating her from her bunny. "Did she eat at all, Mycroft?"

"She had squash soup last night which she managed fine. She had a saltine and a half with orange juice this morning and she complained of stomach pain all the way here." He was not amused when Eve glared at him from my arms. "Don't look at me that way! It was Dr. Watson who suggested it!"

"You can't be mad at him, little one," I confirmed. She seemed much more eager to listen to me than Mycroft. "He was only following my instructions. We'll take it a little slower from now on, hmm?"

Her response was to tighten the arm around my neck slightly and rest her head on my shoulder.

"Have fun with her," grumbled the elder brother with a roll of his eyes. "I, meanwhile, have work to do. Do you have anything that will aid you so far?"

"We had a very enlightening night, brother," Holmes smiled, obviously quite amused with his sibling's experience in childrearing. "Have you ever heard of the name Michael Sinclair...?"

"Only in passing," he admitted, frowning slightly as he thought. "He's been flitting under surveillance for years, but no one has ever quite gotten enough to even obtain a warrant. He once owned several opium dens, three very successful, after reposing them on high-interest loans. He sold them a good ten years ago and presumably retired. His name pops up in confessions every now and then, but he's become such a vein of the underworld most of these claims are just scapegoat attempts."

I found myself marvelling at Mycroft's sharp memory; he was indispensable for good reason. The talk of Sinclair was affecting the child, and she clung ever closer to me. She knew the name.

"Our source, who Inspector Lestrade was kind enough to point us towards, claims Jackyl and another man named Fred Hyde once worked for Sinclair and that Eve here came from his sources," the detective, gesturing lightly towards the girl's arm. "We assumed the word on her arm was in relation to her namesake, the perpetrator of original sin in the biblical sense. Now, however, chances are it's an abbreviation."

The pair of watery grey eyes flashed, angry but also disbelieving. "He put his brand on her... Like you'd identify cattle..."

"I want you to have some of your underlings look through the missing children records from three years ago, Mycroft," Holmes spoke before any of us could dwell too deeply on the cruelty. "We'll be paying this Mr. Fred Haynes a visit."

This name triggered something as well, and Eve's eyes grew wide. She struggled enough to nearly make me drop her.

"Eve, hold still! He'll be behind bars, he won't be able to touch you." Rubbing her back and attempting to calm her before she began to cry again, I looked towards my companion. "Holmes, do you really think she's up to this? She's been through so much..."

"Doctor, do remember that the sooner this case is over with, the sooner she can forget about it," Mycroft spoke, his unspoken words made clear by his expression. _And the sooner my apartment will be rid of the little mouse._

"I mean it, hold still or I'm bound to drop you and that's something neither of us want. You have a good point, but she's so young..."

"Which means she'll likely forget most of it when she grows up," dismissed Holmes. "Happy hunting, brother. I hope you find someone looking for this child; Lord knows it would be pleasant to see her home after this mess has been mopped up."

Mycroft looked as if he could not wait for the moment the girl was released to someone who wanted her presence and gave a slight nod towards her (met with a small hesitant wave), before heading back down the stairs, wheezing slightly again by the time he made it out.

"Now, little miss," Holmes began, his brisk tone implying he was talking to someone much older and much more comfortable in his presence. "Are you up for a little work?"

Those wild eyes of hers darkened and her small hands came to cover her face as she shook her head frantically.

My friend took a step back, coming to the obvious conclusion; she thought of work in the context Jackyl had given it to her, entertaining idiots in that glass mask. Even now I could see the small welts it had made just beside her ears.

"Oh, not that," the man continued as quick as he could. "Nothing quite so crude. Just a little identification."

Eve tilted her head, a physical equivalency of a question mark.

"This Hyde fellow had some friends that were tossed into cells along with him and we want you to tell us if you've seen them before with Hyde. One of them might have information. I take it you've met Mr. Hyde?"

She shrank back against me as she gave a timid nod, shivering at some distant memory. Her rabbit in the crook of her bad arm, her fully able hand was free to grasp as my lapel with as much firmness as her limited strength would allow.

I gave Holmes a glare I hope he would take as a sign not to begin interrogating the child again. "You will be perfectly safe the entire time, Eve. I promise you that." I marvelled at her trust in me when I felt her nod against my shoulder.

Every case with my companion was unique, but this one was especially vital for so many reasons. It was obvious that if Gladstone was blamed, even in slander, for the murder of his opponent, based on what Mycroft had told us our country might be flung into a depression. The second reason was purely the pursuit of justice; no man should walk free after treating an innocent child like an animal.

We left the flat, Eve eventually consenting to being let down once we were inside a carriage, although she did not let me get more than a foot away from her on the seat. It was as if she were afraid I would leave her in a split second.

Holmes

Although I am not normally a fellow who "adores" children, watching the girl gape out the hansom window was rather amusing. She had no doubt travelled much more than a girl her age usually did, but I wondered what dark little place she had been kept in while they were on the move.

In any case, she appeared rather ignorant to the world, and not thirty seconds passed without her pointing to something or other on the outside, either an orange stand or a gaggle of ladies in their brightly coloured dresses, and then looked to Watson with a perpetual expression of questioning on her thin face.

My friend has rarely failed to find something he liked in every civil person and had a soft spot a country mile deep, and his patience was not even tested by the silent inquisition on everything that a Londoner never looked twice at. When the tapping on he glass began to irk me, he was smiling and telling her as much about the indicated item as he could before she saw something else.

Both smiles faded once we exited the carriage outside of the foreboding grey building where some of the most dangerous men in London were housed. The lifeless stone of the squat, ugly place was enough to make a grown man shudder, especially if he had spent time within it, and I noted that while the girl had enough bravery to walk, one arm kept the stuffed toy she cherished pressed to her side and her other hand gripped Watson's sleeve just as tightly.

"We won't be going into the more gruesome wings," I spoke, my voice echoing in the tall but empty entry hall as I held the door for my friend and his parasite. "Hyde and his lot were not condemned to death. The condemned wing is where the truly frightening things happen... They once placed the intended coffins in the cells with them a month before their executions, you know. Just to rattle them."

"Holmes!" Watson hissed, his glare obvious and furious. "Stop scaring her like that!"

"I am not attempting to scare her, old chap. I merely thought she would find it interesting."

Eve gave me a very pointed look that informed me she most certainly did _not_ think of it as such and cinched her grip ever the more firmly on her defender's coat sleeve as we made our way towards the black desk where a uniformed officer was making busy with a stack of paperwork.

When the man, a fresh-faced lad likely no more than six weeks on the job, looked up and saw his, his eyes brightened with recognition. "Sir... Sir, I'm sorry, but you're Sherlock Holmes, aren't you!" It was not a question so much as an upsurge.

I gave a nod, outwardly unimpressed but inwardly a smidge proud to be recognized. "I am indeed, and this is my faithful Boswell Dr. Watson. I take it you read his stories?"

I could almost hear the protest of his vertebrae as he nodded vigorously. "Oh, yes, every one of them! I've never missed an issue of 'The Strand' since you started publishing in them, Dr. Watson!" He looked down, only just noticing the tiny child hiding herself behind the acclaimed author. "Oh... Oh! I didn't think either of you have a child! Perhaps I missed an issue..." The possibility of such a thing made him darken.

"Oh, no, this little one is not ours. She is a witness to our latest case."

Youthful excitement radiated from him. "A case? You're working on a _case_? Oh, sirs, can I be of any help to you? Any help at all?"

Now this was how officers of the peace _should_ behave when I ask for their assistance. This one did not even need to be asked. This would be much more convenient than resorting to bribery or blackmail. "As a matter of fact, officer, we came here to see a particular group of prisoners we know to have been involved with our current suspect. If we could let Miss Eve here see them, perhaps ask them a question or two, we would be on the right trail."

His aura of admiration dimmed a scant degree. "Oh, I'm not entirely sure... I mean, we're not exactly supposed to..."

"If your lips are sealed, ours are doubly so," I smiled, attempting to look every bit the rouge gentleman vigilante Watson painted me as. "Who will believe a criminal who claims to have been visited by Sherlock Holmes?"

His faith in my reputation restored, our pet officer smiled again and rose so quickly that he knocked over an ink bottle (thankfully capped) without even noticing it. "Tops, sir! I mean... I mean I would be pleased to help you gentlemen." He fumbled the first two times he grasped for his ring of keys and rooster of inmates, and I was dreadfully sore Watson would never be able to publish such a high profile case; this lad would make such wonderful comic relief.

When the massive steel doors were opened (our new friend nodding amiably to the gatekeepers of the kingdom), we were met with a long row of cages that no decent person would ever put an animal in. Hollow eyes glanced out at us from behind solid bars and I avoided the gazes. I did not want the ruckus making eye contact with someone I put there would cause.

The officer (I did not know his name but I did know he was hopeless with a pistol and courting a young woman fond of light yellow stationary) was chattering on about a former case; "The Noble Bachelor" from what little I was listening to. I was too busy watching Eve's reactions to care much, but she would not recognize anyone just yet with her little eyes fixed firmly on the floor.

"Here we are, gentlemen, Freddy Hyde, entering his eighth month."

Slowly but with reined movement, the head shaved many times in eight months to ward off lice raised to display two green eyes, big and enveloping, took in all four of us at once in a single shift from top to bottom. It was Eve he saw last and it was here his gaze stayed.

"Last time I saw you," he rasped, his gravely voice telling not only long-time use of a hard, hard tobacco but of numerous respiratory illnesses in a very short span time. "You were 'bout to get your face ripped off by a mastiff."

The girl glared out at him, trying to look intimidating but her entire form trembling. She jumped when Watson placed his hands on her shoulder to steady her.

Hyde looked up to me now, giving a yellowed grin and a bark of a laugh. "She looks half human now in her little dress and shoes and with that little toy Mason gave her... But you should have seen her in the dirt. It was funny, you know. So funny to watch her cry and quiver even though she knew the chain was too strong to ever break."

Mycroft has described my dart as the movement of a smelt fish; rapid, fluid and unexpected. It was not flattering, but it was accurate. In less than a heartbeat I had grabbed the bright prison garb Hyde was clothed in and yanked him forward against the bars.

"You'll tell us what we need to know, Hyde, to find Jackyl and whoever he is associated with."

His grin did not even waver. "It was _funny_."


	8. Each Has His Past

"Each has his past shut in him like the leaves of a book known to him by heart and his friends can only read the title." - Virginia Woolf

Holmes

"Watson," I spoke, keeping my voice even, although not perfectly so. "Take the child to identify some of the others, would you? No doubt the officer will show you there."

"Sir, Mr. Holmes..." the lad protested. "I'm not quite sure if I'm allowed to leave you alone with the prisoners, sir."

"I promise I'll leave him in one piece." I flashed what I hoped was my best "fearless gentleman detective" smile and was grateful when he nodded and took Watson and Eve away from this man who would not doubt dredge up more horrible memories for the girl than she deserved.

"Don't tell me three men are down my neck for that slip of a hare," smirked Hyde, still firm in my grasp. "She's not worth that. She wasn't worth the twenty pounds Sinclair paid for her."

"My case barely concerns the girl. You will cooperate. Who is Sinclair?"

"He was the one who bought the alcohol and anything else we needed to make everything go away. He was the one who had the women. He was the one with the fiercest dogs. He was the only with all the dreams." The look in his eyes was nothing short of specious, and I came to the conclusion that this man had lost some of his marbles along his way. Perhaps it had been the year in prison, but I had heard of more than one opium addict losing himself somewhere between the ground beneath him and the smoke above him.

I pulled him again and his head hit the bar with not nearly as much force as I would have liked, but I had promised the flatfoot he would be alive by the time he got back and I could very well need to call a favour from him sometime. "I want you to listen well, Hyde. Do you know anything about the Black Prince's Ruby?"

Hyde grinned with pure incoherent joy. "Oh, the prince... The prince will fall quickly because he cannot resist the allure of a fiery lady. I don't blame His Highness nor do you. He has a princess in pink petticoats who shrieks in horror when he touches her hip, and then you have a pauper in a low dress who'll shriek for an entirely different reason..."

"You were involved with the heist, I know this. The woman you tossed aside decided to get her pay in your blood, Hyde. I suggest you gather what's left of your wool and start spinning it for me."

"Sinclair's manor in Derby was burned around the same time you were arrested and I doubt this was any coincidence. Where was Sinclair when you last had contact with him?"

"If he is not dead, there is a beautiful woman to one side and a bottle of brandy on the other. He would not like to be anywhere else in the world. He was so generous... Wanted that girl when she was older, marked her as his, but when Jackyl and I broke her with the dogs, when she wouldn't eat, he didn't even have us beat. Gave her to Jackyl because he had an idea for a little skeleton girl..."

I knew I was likely not going to get any useful information on the conductor of this horrendous opera, but I decided to ask one more thing on the off chance I would catch him in a rare moment of lucidity. "Where did the girl come from? Eve? Sinclair was going to keep her, but where did she come from?"

"She came in silence, can't blame us for stealing her voice but that's what caught his attention about her. Don't know who the twenty pounds went to, only that they went and she came." There was that grin again, that grin I wanted so badly to snatch from his very face. "Oh, just a year ago we had fun with her. She loved playing with those dogs. Mason wasn't there to take sport so we used her again. I bet the muzzles and ivory are still painted on the insides of her eyelids when she dreams..."

I pulled him forwards, harder than I meant to, and when I released him he fell to the floor with an adornment of blood fanning open on his forehead. Without sparing him another look, I made for the entrance, where my faithful biographer stood to the side with the girl cradled against his chest. She was breathing slowly in slumber, eyes only fluttering slightly.

"Do all children sleep so much?" I asked as softly as I could as we left the place gladly.

"You must remember, Holmes, that she is functioning on minimal energy. She's been starved for quite some time and now has to make due with liquids until she can handle more. One she is eating normally she'll be more energetic for longer." He paused to push the stuffed rabbit more firmly into her crossed arms so it would not fall. "I hope that day comes soon..."

I despised seeing Watson so down; he had such a sympathy for the outcast creatures of the world. "Children are amazingly resilient, Watson. No doubt she'll spring back now that she's got the proper care."

A look of uncertainty was upon his face. "I... Well, I wonder if her care is right at the moment. No offence to your brother, but she doesn't seem to be overly fond of him or vice versa. Being precocious with him, scribbling over his ledgers... I know we do not have many other options, but if she fears him..."

"Fears him? Watson, man, think. If she was afraid of him, would she do such acts, having been raised to think that displeasure always comes on the back of a hand?" I smiled as I pictured my brother's face upon finding his diligent work covered in crayon and shook my head. "No, I daresay she likes him perfectly fine. She does not fear him, in any case."

My friend gave a quiet chuckle of admittance. "But what does your brother think of her? Mycroft can barely stand your childish qualities. Is it the best idea for him to be looking after an actual child?"

"Mycroft is too tightly wound for his own good; it'll do him no harm to have an element of chaos in his life." I then paused, and lowered my brow into a mock glower. "And I have no childish qualities."

"You're flying them from the flag post now, Holmes. Did you get anything out of Hyde?"

"An abundance of gibberish and very little useable information," I sighed, wishing that the villain had chosen a drug that would not have melted his mind like an ice block in the sun. "I was thinking of one more trip before the day is out. Sleeping Beauty can be of more use than she thinks."

"It sounds to be our best option at the moment. But Holmes..." Watson's voice dropped as his hazel eyes met mine and pleaded. "Don't push her too hard, Holmes. She's very young and very, very broken."

I gave a nod of concord, breaking the gaze as quickly as he would allow me to. "I understand, Watson." I may have been annoyed at having to treat our key witness with kid gloves, but I would not submit her to any more horror. If I did, Watson would be quick to instil revenge, and he knew just where I slept.

We exited the station, Watson still carrying the sleeping child in his arms, and hailed a cab – I remembered the address of the betting house, and I decided we should lose no time in investigating what remained of the deserted place.

In the process of settling into the vehicle, the girl awakened with a sharp startled movement, staring wildly about her. I watched as her frightened eyes gazed round like a trapped animal's and then fastened on Watson's kind face, finally relaxing and giving him the tiniest of smiles.

My friend's own face was wreathed in a soft-hearted grin, and I nearly laughed at him – the child had him wrapped 'round her tiny little finger, if she but knew it. He sat the girl on his lap and she began to look out the front of the cab curiously.

"Where are we headed, Holmes?"

"To Hyde's betting house," I replied, starting to detail to him the pertinent parts of the horrid conversation I had had with the madman.

As I talked, Eve wriggled uneasily, her free hand grasping for Watson's jacket and clutching it, half-hiding her face in the tweed. My friend patted her back reassuringly as I spoke.

"There will be no one in the house, little one," I said as she stared at us both. "It is completely empty."

The girl did not move whatsoever, looking at me with some distrust.

"He is right, Eve," Watson added, "the men and the dogs have all gone. You have nothing to fear."

The girl's eyes traveled up to him, her brow wrinkling as if in thought. Then, as if to show us she agreed, the child removed her face from Watson and bounced a little on his lap, suddenly handing that disgusting rabbit to me with a tiny grin.

"Erm, thank you, but I think Dr. Watson would like to hold him more than I," I said hastily, guiding the girl's arm and its dingy contents toward the Doctor.

Watson glared at me with a look that told me he was not in the least amused, and I made a mental note to lock my door tonight when we retired to prevent a repayment such as the last time he had been annoyed with me.

Eve tittered wordlessly, pushing the bunny back into the crook of her sling, and then she abruptly pulled Watson's pocket-watch from his waistcoat, inspecting it solemnly while I looked on in amusement.

Watson

My pocket-watch kept the girl occupied at least, until we reached the address Holmes had remembered from his crime articles back in Baker Street. The cab dropped us and my friend paid the fare while I swung the girl up into my arms, as she was suddenly looking very much frightened.

I could tell from Holmes's manner that even his unemotional core had been shaken by the horrors Hyde had told him went on in this house, and I for one was feeling quite ill from what he had relayed to me about the atrocities. I could not imagine what the girl had to be feeling right now.

Eve had suddenly begun to cry quietly, her good arm crooked round my neck in a choking grip.

I sent my impatient friend a warning look.

"We have to, Watson," he said quietly, "I need her to show me the house. We can go as slowly as necessary, but she has to go in."

I sighed, patting the girl's back comfortingly, and followed him up to the shaky-looking door. A dilapidated sign hung thereupon, telling the world that the house had been condemned and not to enter, etc., etc.

An order which Holmes, as usual, promptly ignored.

"Holmes! What are you doing!" I asked, seeing him start to pry the boards off the door.

Eve had begun to stop her crying and was looking at my friend curiously, sniffling a little.

"Really, Watson, what does it look like I am doing?" he growled, giving a heaving yank to the very flimsy board with its solitary nail in the side of the doorframe.

"I certainly hope no one sees us doing this," I muttered.

Holmes was too proud to ask for my help, and so I stood back and enjoyed watching him nearly throw out a disk in his back before the board finally came free with a loud groaning crack.

A groan which my friend echoed as he suddenly went over backwards onto the ground, holding the board in his hands, staring up from his undignified position in great annoyance.

I could feel the girl in my arms begin to laugh silently at his red face and his hasty seat on the ground. Eve turned to look at me with two wide eyes that were actually smiling.

"He looks rather silly in that position, does he not, Eve?"

A very vehement nod, accompanied by a tiny grin.

"Do stop playing on the ground, Holmes," I said teasingly, rattling the doorknob now that the board barring the entrance had been removed so unceremoniously.

It was unlocked, and after a growled response to my jest Holmes opened it, ducking under the other boards that remained above us. I set Eve down and then followed her in. The moment we were inside, the girl was clutching at my leg in a vice-like grip.

"Hmm," Holmes said, lighting a match and looking round, "Ah, there's a candlestick. Looks as if no one has been here since it was closed up, Watson. No footprints, no disturbed dust, nothing."

He lit the candles on the candlestick and the room filled with a more cheerful glow than just the sunshine through the dust-caked windows.

I picked up Eve and swung her again into my arms, and she looked about her with a little trepidation but seemed content to rest against my shoulder as Holmes came over to us.

"Eve, I want you to do something for me," he said, and I was fervently grateful for the calm in his voice, though I knew it would not last long if the girl did not cooperate.

The girl grabbed a handful of my jacket, but she nodded at my friend.

"Do you remember where the office is?"

She looked at him, puzzled.

"The place where Mr. Hyde kept his papers," Holmes prompted.

Her hand relinquished my coat and a tiny finger pointed to a dark doorway. We moved in that direction and found a locked door that opened more readily to Holmes's lock-pick than our own home did with a latchkey.

Holmes entered with the candle, Eve and I close behind him, and found ourselves in a small office only holding a desk, side table with a decanter on it, and one bookcase.

Eve was fumbling to be let down, and so I put her on the floor, watching to make sure she would be all right, and she tugged on Holmes's sleeve insistently.

He had been staring about him and now started violently, looking down at her.

"What is it?" he asked quickly.

Eve tugged him over to the wall and pointed to a large painting of some European landscape – rather in bad taste, in my opinion.

Holmes looked at her quizzically and then removed the painting from the wall. I expected to see a safe behind it or something of the sort, but there was nothing but blank wall.

Holmes looked at her again, and she pointed to the picture in his hands.

"What is it?" he queried once more.

He set the painting on the ground at her insistent motions, and to my astonishment, the girl began to fumble to take the back off. Holmes eagerly took over for her, and a moment later the back fell away – revealing two documents taped to the back of the picture.

Eve had scooted closer to me and was clinging to my jacket uncertainly, glancing uneasily from me to Holmes, who was perusing the two documents quickly.

"Watson. It's a map of Buckingham Palace, and a letter from Mason," he said, his grey eyes lighting up in excitement. "Well done, my dear girl!"


	9. Worries and Soup

_"Worries go down better with soup." - Jewish Proverb_

**Holmes**

I found myself praising the girl out of pure thanks rather than cajoling; I was surprised she had remembered the painting after a year (and when there had been more haunting memories that night). The map was the first to fall under my gaze and therefore it was the first to be unfolded.

"A professional job," I murmured as I made my way to the desk without tearing my gaze from the aged paper. The map was in neat black, but there were notes in red ink in an entirely different hand on the sides. "Or near it, anyway. The lines are slanted in some places... But the many thing that worries me are the extra rooms."

I could not see Watson, but I had seen his questioning expression enough times to conjure it in my mind's eye. "Extra rooms...?" There was a cloud of dust as he picked up the girl and set her on the edge of the desk so that she could see her uncoverings. "That's Mason's handwriting on the side, isn't it?"

"Sharp eye, Watson." My friend had matched the addressing on the outside of the envelope with the side notes. "Though he did not make the map, I imagine his contacts at the time would have been sufficient to borrow a classified map such as this for a hasty copying job. Traces of rush are all over this. But yes, extra rooms. A tidbit from my brother, thank God he is good for something, is that Buckingham Palace has many rooms not known to the general public and kept hushed for reasons of security. Mycroft knows them, of course, and he felt I was to be privy to some of them."

I was shortening the story for simplicity's sake; Mycroft had hardly just given up the information. It had been a bargaining tool for the physical evidence I had fetched for him. He had also burnt the old school reports he had kept of mine, but I knew he had copies somewhere.

"And the letter...?" my dear friend asked, and I noticed him hovering ever near the edge of the desk in case the peering child should start to slip. I did not blame him as the corners looks sharp and not at all welcoming to little skulls or eyes.

My quick hands opened the envelope and I ignored the slight tears on the brittle material, squinting a bit to read faded ink in dim light. "... Mason's resignation letters. Of sorts. He goes on about how he can no longer betray the British people, how he's washing his hands of the whole matter... The usual drivel. This is dated well after the Ruby was stolen so he must have had a hand in it."

"They killed him because he knew too much." Watson sounded unsure however, and looked at me for confirmation. He frowned only slightly when I shook my head, used to being a few steps behind (although there were times where those steps were more like half-steps).

"If that were the case, my dear Watson, they would not have waited nearly three years. No... No, for whatever reasons they had, they let him live at the time. Perhaps they knew he had taken precautions for the event of his death that would point the finger at them, perhaps even at Sinclair directly."

He nodded slowly, absorbing the sound argument. "Do you think... Do you think that the precautions, whatever they were, had recently fallen through? And these people discovered that?"

"Very possible, Watson. Very possible," I agreed, tucking both documents gingerly inside my coat pocket and hoping they would not crumble all over my best jacket. I cared not in the least, but Mrs. Hudson might flay the skin off of me to make another coat if she had to scrub paper out of another one of my garments. "I gather they kept this letter as blackmail; Mason's handwriting is very distinctive."

"Holmes..." His voice was suddenly a bit strained and I wondered if his leg was beginning to throb even in the mild weather. I looked up to see him assisting the girl down. Thrill of the find worn now, she had returned to her usual apprehension, seeking comfort in her bundle of rags that resembled a rabbit.

"Yes...?" I tried to be as understand as I could although I knew what was coming. A child witness could only be pushed so far and I knew this as well as he did. For all the times I insisted I was entirely heartless through to my core, I knew this fact had been proven wrong.

"No more rooting for today, Holmes," he sighed, saying just as I knew he would say. "Between the jail and this... This nightmarish hell hole... She's has enough for one day."

"Alright, old chap." It was then that the situation presented it to me; we could not stay in Baker Street for long, and we most certainly could not get to serious work with Eve underfoot. The arrangements had been made to prevent that. Yet it was only noon and Mycroft would not be off work for a while yet, and I believed that if we were to deposit the child at Whitehall, the resulting revenge would be quite permanent.

"We'll head home, have Mrs. Hudson fix the child something she can manage for lunch," I finally said, noting how eagerly she left the building, keeping a firm grasp on Watson's hand but almost dragging him forward. "And... Well, we'll play it by ear from there."

**Watson**

After spending the night in his brother's pristine flat, it was little wonder that when Eve first lay eye on 221b Baker Street, she glanced back at Holmes to make sure she still saw the vague resemblance between them. For all the efforts Mrs. Hudson and I put into keeping the place as neat as any zoo ever was, it was always at the height of disarray at the start of a case.

Our landlady heard the extra set of footsteps and she (while she would rather die than admit it) could be every bit as curious of Holmes at times. Upon seeing Eve, she gave a slight gasp that sent the skittish child scuttling behind the barricade she had made of me.

"Oh, I didn't mean to scare her, doctor, but the poor dear!" our lady asserted, leaning a bit to catch a glimpse of her. "She's as thin as a rake, and those bruises... That sling..." Her eyes came to meet mine, the compassion of any mother in them. "She was treated so badly..."

"Was. As in the past tense," interrupted Holmes though he at least had the decency not to physically roll his eyes at Mrs. Hudson's concern. "She will be well cared for from here on in, you have our words."

"Would we be too forward in asking for some lunch?" I questioned as I pried Eve from my left leg and settled her on the sofa, pushing anything that looked dangerous to the far side of the end tables. "I'm afraid Eve can only handle a bit right now... Perhaps chicken broth with some vegetables?"

"Of course, doctor," nodded the woman, risking a final smile towards the girl and beaming when it was hesitantly returned, heading down the stairs to prepare the meal.

"Eve, please don't touch anything without checking with one of us that it's safe." I make a quick scan of the flat and gave a nod to Holmes that he should store his chemical set somewhere away from little hands, which he went to do (one of the rare times he obeyed my order to tidy anything). "As you heard me say before... There are some dangerous things here that might hurt you accidentally. Do you understand?"

The dark-haired girl nodded, folding her hands in her lap. Her eyes wandered about, however, taking in the chaotic atmosphere, making me wonder briefly if this was much closer to her past home than the place she had spent the night. No doubt it was; Jackyl did not seem the type of man to keep as clean of lodgings as Mycroft. But then, few people were so tidy.

"What exactly do you plan to do with her after you eat?" Holmes questioned, making no reference towards taking lunch himself although I hoped he would. "The longer we keep her here, the greater our chances that something will happen. One of the Irregulars almost lost an ear three weeks ago fooling around with your pistol, and while I hope she has a mite more sense than that she's still young."

"I suppose we'll have to go... Somewhere..." I had to admit I was at a bit of a loss; I usually did not have spare time to spend. "Do you have any ideas?"

"As a matter of fact..." he mused as he bottled the last few vials and locked them securely into a cupboard. "I was thinking of taking her to a museum. Perhaps natural history. It would keep her occupied, and she likely has a very pinhole view of the rest of the world." Seeing her insulted scowl at this, he countered with "Well, you do! It's hardly your fault, you know."

The petulant scowl remained, and for a moment I caught a glimpse of what my friend must have been like as a child. I suddenly felt new pity for Mycroft.

"He only wants to widen your horizons," I informed her as I sat beside her and was immediately swarmed. Even in of doors, did she have fear? Or was this merely her way of making up for all the years when she had no kind human touch at all? When my gaze returned to Holmes, he was inspecting the map again with his magnifying glass. "Small detailing?"

"As a matter of fact, yes..." He was using the voice that let me know he was only half-listening, if that. "Clever little traitors... They have names worked into the floor plan, Watson. Sinclair's is not here, but Hyde and Jackyl are. Mason is also missing, not surprising considering he likely had the map commissioned." He paused, squinting through the brass-rimmed glass. "What's this...? Co-ordinates..."

"Perhaps the exact location of the palace, Holmes." Even in my mind it sounded unlikely; not even someone as dense as these common criminals could miss Buckingham Palace.

"This is not in England, Watson, but I cannot pinpoint it from memory." He began shifting mercilessly through the reference books I had at least put an effort into straightening. "Where the devil did that atlas go...?"

I heard Mrs. Hudson coming up the stairs and rose, leading Eve to the dining table and pushing the papers to one hemisphere of it the best I could without a shovel. "Could you not take a break for lunch, Holmes? You hardly had any breakfast this morning and we both missed dinner the night before."

The lanky detective gave a grumble as he swung the door open seconds before Mrs. Hudson would have reached for the knob. She was used to this and merely entered where another might have been startled. "If you _insist_, Watson."

"I do." I had snatched a thick pillow from the sofa and placed it on a chair, lifting Eve up onto it. I wondered briefly how Mycroft had solved the problem; I had seen no loose throw pillows in his sitting room. Likely just more to clean.

"Eat up, little heart," smiled our landlady to the still shirking girl as she set the bowl of broth with finely diced vegetables before her. "You look like you need it even more than Mr. Holmes does."

Another one of her timid smiles that made the woman beam (she had always stricken me as a great champion of small children), and took up the small spoon Holmes or I would be more apt to stir tea with. It surprised all of us when she lifted the soup to her lips with an air of manners, not even slurping.

Holmes chuckled softly as he pulled a book from the stack and upsetting the rest. "I wonder how long it took Mycroft to get her into that habit with any reliability."

I glanced over to him, arching a brow. "How do you know it was your brother?"

"The bend at her elbow is the same degree as his when he uses a soup spoon. It seems Eve here is quite the little mimic." He fanned the pages to find one particular one and when it was discovered he set the open book before the girl. "Do you see this...?"

She glanced at the drawing, tilting her head slightly although the curiosity in her eyes was burning as bright as any house fire. She looked up to my friend, a deep longing for an answer apparent without words.

Holmes laughed again, tapping the huge dragon of a beast with a spindle of a finger. "It is a dinosaur, and it just so happens you'll see him, or at least his bones, once you are done with your meal."


	10. Learning from Children

__

"You can learn many things from children. How much patience you have, for instance." - Franklin P. Jones

**Watson**

"Eve! Don't touch that! Watson, keep her off the railings! For heaven's sake, you'll get us thrown out!"

I sighed; Sherlock Holmes was never a patient man, and with a hyperactive five-year-old his tiny bit of tolerance was fast evaporating.

"She can't see, Holmes," I explained as I pulled the girl off of the bottom rail of an iron barrier between her and a display of Seventh Theban Dynasty mummies.

The girl glared at me with more spirit than I would have thought possible after her tiring experience of the morning, and I hastily swung her up into my arms to prevent a possible tantrum.

"You mustn't touch anything, Eve," I admonished somewhat sternly, trying to ignore Holmes's irritated glares as he kept a wary eye out for a museum guide who might have seen her nearly fall over the railing.

The little one nodded and leaned over the side to curiously inspect a particularly gruesome mummy - the tastes of children theses days, honestly.

I sighed as I followed Holmes as he wandered round aimlessly, obviously more in thought than in paying attention to his surroundings, judging from the number of people he absently knocked over in his perambulations, leaving me to mutter apologies as I pushed my way through the crowd after him as we exited the Egyptian section and headed for the European exhibits.

Eve's good arm was wrapped around my neck in a near stranglehold, and just now she tugged on my ear.

"Eve," I said warningly.

The girl tittered silently and pointed to a display of glittering jewellery worn by European royalty in years gone by, and after glancing about to see that Holmes was still milling 'round bumping into people aimlessly, I bent over the case so that she could look at the sparkling gems.

She inspected them for a moment and then turned her attention over my shoulder, giving my ear another urgent tug.

"Stop that," I said in a little annoyance.

Eve pointed behind me and I turned to look. Thank heaven there were not many people around, for Sherlock Holmes was doing exactly what he had sternly ordered me to prevent Eve from doing. He was standing on the railings, leaning over the top rail to look at a large oversized globe standing in a display, detailing the European continent in brilliant shades of what I assumed was marble.

I moaned and hastily went over to him, casting a glance round to see if anyone was staring at my friend in his undignified position, shaking my head at Eve who was glaring at Holmes.

"Yes, I know he told you that you couldn't do that, Eve," I said uncomfortably as we reached Holmes, "Holmes, what the devil are you doing!"

"**HAH**!"

His enthusiastic shout could be heard ringing and echoing through the museum halls, and I cringed as several people turned to stare at the three of us. Holmes hopped down carelessly off the rail to meet a glaring pair of five-year-old eyes.

"What?" he asked.

Eve glared at him once more, and I was hard pressed not to smile as she pointed to the railing and began to pout.

"Yes, yes, I know I said you couldn't climb on them. But Watson, those coordinates - they are in Italy!"

"Italy."

"Yes, a city called Bari - you are of course familiar with it?"

"Bari. No, I - Eve, don't touch!"

The girl glared at me in protest.

"Yes, I know Mr. Holmes touched it, but you can't."

Eve folded her one arm across her chest and sent us both a look that could curdle milk. I sighed and looked back at Holmes, who was scribbling in his notebook. Then Eve tugged once more on my ear, and I gave up remonstrating with a sigh.

"What is it?"

The girl pointed behind us at a familiar figure, her little face creasing into a tiny smile.

"Er, Holmes?"

"What?"

"We have company, believe this or not."

"What are you going on about?"

"Good afternoon, Doctor," rumbled Mycroft, eyes taking in the surroundings in one fell swoop before coming to rest on his brother. "Well, Sherlock, how are you enjoying your babysitting?"

"I rather think you can deduce that for yourself, brother mine," Holmes replied with thinly veiled annoyance.

"Hmm, yes." His smile made it evident that he was revelling in his younger brother's inconvenience. I got a feeling that this might be retribution for years of babysitting Sherlock himself. "I suppose you should be very glad to have the Doctor along here."

"Actually, I have spent the last hour babysitting more than one child," I replied pointedly, throwing Holmes a look.

Elder brother chuckled. "Now you know what a holy terror he was as a youngster, Doctor. Eve, how are you?"

The little one did not shrink away from Mycroft but rather extended a small hand - complete with dingy rabbit in its closed fist.

"Um, yes. Tell Bunny I said hallo as well. Sherlock -"

"Tell me, brother, why have you left your stolid habits twice in as many days? Is that not a record?"

"Do _not_ interrupt, Sherlock," the larger man abolished, as if they were children once more. "It is a very childish habit."

Younger brother flushed under Mycroft's disapproving glare and sternly pointing finger.

"The powers that be will not allow for down time in this matter, Sherlock. Can we go somewhere away from these throngs, for I have something to show you. Perhaps the café downstairs?"

I stifled a snicker, for I had been able to deduce that food would have entered the picture at some point since it had been all of three hours since the normal luncheon time.

It appeared that Holmes had anticipated it as well, for he rolled his eyes eloquently at me and led the way to the stairs. I made sure that Eve's rabbit was well-secured under her arm and then followed Mycroft.

**__**

Holmes

"Now, Mycroft. What have you to tell us - and I have information for you as well," I said briskly when we were seated at a corner table.

My brother was infuriatingly slowly devouring a sandwich but he stopped to look at the map of the Palace I placed upon the table.

I glanced over at Watson while my brother was studying it and saw that he had gotten the girl a glass of milk and was teaching her how to blow bubbles through the straw. I shook my head, trying to keep the grin from my face - the girl would very much horrify my brother if she did that when she went back to his apartment.

"These coordinates, Sherlock. Italy, are they not?"

I scowled - Mycroft had always been a walking combination dictionary, atlas, and Bradshaw. "Yes, a small city called Bari. What connection does Bari, Italy, have with this dead politician?"

"Leave that speculation for the moment, Sherlock, and look at this. What the deuce are you doing, Doctor?"

I grinned, hiding my face in the letter Mycroft had handed me as Watson endeavoured to explain why Eve was blowing vigorously into the straw with a happy smile, spraying more milk onto herself and the table than was left in the foam-filled glass.

"Mycroft, where did you get this?"

He turned his exasperated attention back to me.

"It came from Derby, this morning. Unsigned, obviously by a mildly educated man of good means."

"And obviously he knows more than he is telling us."

"Exactly. According to this information, Jackyl is headed north."

"To Derby, presumably."

"Possibly, Sherlock, possibly." My brother finished his sandwich, his enormous brow wrinkled in thought.

"We shall have to track him and Jackyl down, Mycroft," I said, glancing over the plain white writing paper - no clue of importance there. And the hand was indicative of nothing important other than the facts that Mycroft had already stated. I turned my attention to the envelope.

"I say, Mycroft - did you notice this?" I asked, indicating a small feather that was apparently stuck to the glue along the flap of the envelope.

"Of course I did, Sherlock. Common enough feather, ruff and broken, obviously indicating stress."

"And stress indicates overcrowded poultry," I replied, my brows knitting.

"Which means..."

"That I am going to get a copy of the Derby business directory straight away!" I said, jumping up from the table.

"You do that," Mycroft replied, mopping his brow as if exhausted. "I have already done too much moving 'round today to suit my tastes. Doctor, is that wise do you suppose?"

I gave vent to my laughter as I moved away from the table toward the exit, for Watson had bought the child a small package of sweets and the girl was in the middle of her first one - probably her first one ever. I did not know which of them had the bigger smile on their face, the girl or my dear friend.

Mycroft was going to take a child home that was full of sugar. It might be a good experience for him.


	11. Obedience

_"I have thought about it a great deal, and the more I think, the more certain I am that obedience is the gateway through which knowledge, yes, and love, too, enter the mind of the child." - Anne Sullivan_

**Mycroft**

"Eve, hold still for a moment, would you? Just because you _are_ a little urchin doesn't mean you have to look like one." The girl seemed to delight in averting my attempts to use my second handkerchief to wipe the smudge of chocolate off her face. Although I had no desire to see her trembling in fear again, she had been much easier to deal with when she was shell shocked.

"She's just asserting independence Jackyl never gave her," Dr. Watson offered, seemingly amused with the whole situation as he nibbled on one of the untouched candies, pushing them towards me.

I finally wiped the blemish from the child, grinning ever so slightly in triumph. "Believe it or not, I have no taste for anything sweet, doctor."

He arched an eyebrow, somewhat rude but not entirely unexpected. "Would it be too forward of me to ask why?"

"As a matter of fact, yes, it would be. Perhaps we should go through the park to Pall Mall instead of catching a hansom... As much as I detest the unnecessary movement, I think Eve has some excess energy to burn before she is let loose on my flat." I paused. Light, harried footsteps. I braced myself for inevitable.

Sherlock skidded to a stop before us, a piece of paper baring his horrible scrawl clutched in his hand so tightly that he was creasing the paper. His knee hit the underside of the table in the process of haphazard sitting, and he gave a rather red curse.

"Holmes!" Watson was quick to dissuade, giving a sideways glance to Eve.

"She's likely heard it before, and it isn't as if she can repeat it, dear Watson. Now, look at this!" He tossed the paper onto the table with a flourish, and even Eve, though she could not read the words, stared at it.

I felt a smile spread across my face. "_Bari_ngton's Poultry Farm, Derby. I'll be... It seems Mr. Mason was far more clever than I ever gave him credit for."

"And Sinclair had a manor in Derby before it was burnt," put in the doctor, his face lighting up at the lead. "Sinclair himself _must_ have been behind the heist, and likely behind the assassination of Mason."

"Is it an assassination now?" my brother asked, brow suddenly furrowing. "I've often wondered, how important must a person be before a murder becomes an assassination?" He always looked more serious pondering the inane than the sensible.

I ignored him with years upon years of practise, looking now at Eve, who had grown bored of the chatter of grownups and was amusing herself with her rabbit. "Eve, does the name..." I paused to glance at the paper. "Darren Barington, mean anything to you? Think hard, now."

An expression of thought passed over her, but she finally shook her head.

"Then he's likely someone Jackyl did not know about, or at least did not see of any importance."

"What I'm wondering," Watson spoke up, sounding hesitant at first but apparently assured by my and my brother's attention. "Is why Jackyl increasingly seems like a lower link in the chain. We know he had the Ruby at one point..."

The girl gave a tug on his sleeve and a shake of the head.

I frowned slightly at this, but stopped myself as the girl shrunk back, apparently thinking she had erred. "Eve, you showed me that picture, where Jackyl was holding the Ruby... He never kept it, did he? Mason took it with him."

A nod and a smile.

"But if Jackyl never kept the Ruby, he must have had some crucial link in the puzzle for them to leave..." Watson trailed off, giving a saddened look towards Eve. I knew he was thinking of the cross patteé, as was I. We both refused to believe anyone could be so randomly cruel. "An x-marks-the-spot, as one might put it..."

"It seems the only way we'll know for sure is to unravel this," spoke up Sherlock, cracking through the depressing fog. As annoying as my brother is, as many times as I wished to be an only child or brother to a sister, Sherlock has always had a way of shedding a positive light on things that I failed to achieve. I could not retain a smile when his eyes shifted to Eve. "We'll bring in Jackyl, and when we do, he'll be made to regret everything he ever did to you."

I expected the child to be unimpressed with such a noble (and, though my brother would hate to describe it as such, romantic) proclamation, but instead there was a glimmer of a tear in her eye quickly whisked away by her sleeve but not gone unnoticed.

"We're walking through the park, Holmes," Watson spoke up as he rose, Eve scrambling down from the chair to take his hand. "So she can stretch her legs a bit. Unless, of course, something in Baker Street is more pressing."

There was that rueful smile that had always made our father blanch. "We must prepare for a trip to Derby tomorrow, but that will not take too long. It is not every day Mycroft Holmes moves of his own power willingly; it is a phenomenon to be observed for posterity."

****

Watson

The day was clear and sunny, even as the hour started to grow late. I had misjudged how much time we had spent poking about dusty mummies and old jewels, and yet the odd minute seems to be burned into my mind. The pure awe and disbelief at the bones of the first dinosaur claimed as such, and the surprise and simple joy at her first taste of sweetness. Now she was darting ahead of us, always waiting for us to catch up before skipping away again, as the four of us made our way through the park.

"You can almost forget where she comes from, if you try," spoke Holmes, amusement evident as a flock of birds scattered when the girl got too close to them. "When you see her like that, carefree and too far away to see the bruises, she seems like a normal little girl."

"She will be," his brother replied, his own gaze a bit more constricting than musing. "Eve, not too far ahead! It's not a race! One way or another, doctor, once this whole mess has been straightened out, the girl is going to a good home. If we do not find her original family, she is young enough to be adopted easily by a couple who wants a child."

"Nothing in the missing children records?" I questioned. I had been hoping that Eve's home lurked somewhere in those files, half a decade old and all but lost hopes now.

Mycroft shook his head slowly, eyes both very close and very distant at the same time. "No, I'm afraid not. I did not include her name in the search, though I told them to keep an eye out for an Eve. It may not be her real name, you see. Eve is a macabre name, a known one, a good one for an act like Jackyl had. Just because she knows no other title does not mean she was not a Cordelia or an Antoinette when she was born."

Watching the tough-hearted, practical girl observing the ducks in the pond from a safe distance, I could not make any of those names stick to her. Eve was short and even, feminine but not overpoweringly so. Still, I knew Mycroft could very well be right. He usually was on most counts.

"Tomorrow I'll extend the perimeters to include countries neighbouring England. Who knows, she may be French, German... Though that would make things harder, going back to a country where she no longer knows the language."

"What did you get back from your contact?" Holmes asked. "Eve, leave the ducks alone! They don't like to be frightened any more than you do!"

"Nothing we did not already know, I'm afraid," the heavy man sighed, visibly sheepish as coming up empty-handed when he was used to uncovering the vital. "But there was one point of interest... Sinclair is re-emerging."

My friend gave a start. "As a criminal?"

"No, that is what's interesting. As an honest man. He's always had fronts for his activities... Opium dens, legal betting houses, factories and such. But all of a sudden he's opening boarding schools for underprivileged boys, he's been funding the arts... Ironically enough, he opened an orphanage just last month. It's all be low profile and all the auditing checks out, so I can't for the life of me figure out what he's up to unless..."

"Unless what?" piped in Holmes, indignant and disbelieving. "Unless he's _reformed_?"

"People do, Sherlock. I am by no means saying Sinclair has, and even if he has that does not excuse his past actions, but I like to believe the human heart has room for change in it. I could not retain my sanity if I did not think that."

This silenced both Holmes and I for several moments though it had hardly been dramatic so much as a stated fact. It was often we forgot that his brother, along with the talent of vast knowledge, also had the burden of many fates on his shoulders. We dealt with the criminals who killed one or two men, while he dealt with those who would march thousands of soldiers to their deaths.

"Say," Holmes finally spoke, brow furrowing as he glanced about. "Where's the little devil gotten to? Eve? Eve!" He actually looked a tad worried for the child he had desired to toss in the display tank full of piranhas an hour ago.

We got our reply when Eve came tearing from behind a tree, a look on her face to rival the one we first saw her wearing, running like the devil was on her heels. When she got close enough she threw herself towards Mycroft, no doubt seeing him as the tallest and largest and therefore the safest.

The huge man caught and lifted her out of instinct, frowning at the tears streaming down her cheeks. "Eve, what on earth..."

We had not noticed the barking before; a park was full of dogs at any given time. Now that we could place the playful voice of the spindly but speedy greyhound dog bounding after her on skinny legs. It slid to a stop with more grace than Holmes had managed earlier and dropped immediately to its narrow haunches before Mycroft's feet, whip of a tail moving so fast it was a blur. In its mouth was a familiar rabbit which he released without struggle when I myself bent to take it from him.

"Take her!" Mycroft hissed, attempting to pass the silently wailing Eve off to me. Both of her fists were clenched around the lapels of his jacket, however, and a slight tug did not dislodge them.

"Mycroft, stop that! You're going to damage her wrist further!"

"Well, what am I _supposed_ to do!"

"Comfort her, assure her! Be a human being towards her!" I shot back, distressed to see the girl so hysterical and wanting to embrace her myself.

"Er... There, there," the man at least attempted, giving her back a gentle pat. He stiffened visibly when she buried her face in his shoulder. "Watson..."

"You're doing fine." My attention was turned to the young man scrambling towards us holding a leash and looking horrified; I did not need to be as perceptive as Holmes to deduce that this was the dog's owner.

"He didn't bowl her over, did he?" the sandy-haired youth questioned, face genuinely remorseful as he tied the leash in place around the greyhound's canvas collar. "I'm truly sorry, sirs, Pascal isn't a bad sort of dog, he's just a little eager at times..."

"No, she's merely afraid of dogs in general," Holmes spoke before I had a chance to. "I believe what happened was that she dropped her toy and when he attempted to return it she thought he was chasing her."

The man gave a furious blush, averting his eyes. "Fetch is his best trick. I'm training him to be a hunting dog, actually. I'm very, very sorry." Looking at the sobbing girl, he gave a small cringe.

"No permanent harm done," I assured him, not wishing him any more embarrassment as he dragged the oblivious four-legged beast away. I looked to my left to see my friend wearing an odd expression. "What is it?"

"Two things," he murmured, words slow as if he were still considering them. "Greyhounds are not usually used as a retrieving dog; they're bred for coursing animals. And secondly, I'm wondering why a man who does not eat meat would ever wish to hunt."

"How on earth could you tell he was vegetarian?"

"His shoes were not leather, which was my first hint as that is something rather uncommon for a young man of decent means. The tips of his fingernails were very slightly stained the colour of walnuts, consumed to make up for the fatty acids he does not acquire from fish like any normal person. Lastly, the vast majority of vegetarians have a slight Vitamin D deficiency, not enough to cause problems but enough to weaken the fingernails a bit. The two fingers most heavily stained were bent inward, warped from their weakness and from shelling walnuts. Correct, Mycroft?" He paused, looking over towards his brother. "Mycroft...?"

The portly man was almost entirely still expect for the hand that was running a sole finger down Eve's spine again and again. Her breathing had evened though it was still ragged, and though her tears were stemming they still fell.

"I think," Mycroft spoke softly, plucking the rabbit from my hands despite its grubbiness and settling it against the girl's chest. "We'd best head home."

When we left the flat, we had managed to pry Eve's fists, tight around Mycroft's jacket even in sleep, open and lay her on the bed she temporarily called her own and we could hear the sounds of Mycroft running the tap in the kitchen, no doubt going to give "Bunny" a thorough scrubbing.

****

Eve

When I woke up, there was no darkness. It was not a thing I expected to get used to. Waking should not be quiet, it should be paired with pain. There was pain, but only old pain, no kicking, no grabbing. Old pain I had learned to live with. Bunny was also gone, and I felt a rush of fear at this.

I slid quickly from the bed that was not mine, the first bed I had ever slept in, and I made my way down the hall. I could see Mycroft at the desk. Everyone seemed to have two names, but both Watson (or Doctor) and Holmes (or Sherlock) had only called him one name. Mr. Trevor had called him Holmes, but there was already one. Perhaps he had made a mistake. I made them often enough. I had made one in the park, but there had been no new pain with it.

I remembered the glare I had gotten the last time I had startled him, and gave a small tapping on the wall.

I saw him turn, and I was surprised at his smile and his gesture to come to him.

I could not help but slink; I had behaved foolishly. I had behaved badly. I had not been thinking when I went to him, I had forgotten that it was Watson who swung me up into his arms and Mycroft who taught me Manners.

"Do not look so ashamed," Mycroft sighed, his smile remaining true. "Everyone has their fears, and yours has a solid reason behind it, which is more than most people can say." He paused, eyes scanning me. "Oh, you must be missing your rabbit, aren't you?"

I nodded, and I smiled widely when he rose, going to the kitchen and returned with Bunny wrapped up in a towel. I grasped him tightly once he was back in my arm that did not hurt, and then turned my smile to Mycroft.

"I washed him up the best I could. He was in need of it. Now, would you like up? I have something you may find interesting for you."

The day had been full of what Holmes called Interesting. Bones of a monster older than anyone who ever lived, fish who tore at meat like wolves, and bodies not bleeding and pale but shrunk and black. I nodded, and was lifted gently up onto the seat with the book on it. I plopped Bunny down on the seat beside me, glad that Mycroft had kept him. He did not seem to like him very much.

"This should be of great help to you," he explained, sliding a thin book in front of me. It contained Letters, but also many blank lines like Watson's notebook. There was a picture of an apple there. I recognized one of the two letters I knew, and pointed to it, looking up to Mycroft.

"Yes, an E. The word is apple. This is something called a primer, Eve, it will help you learn to read and write. You cannot rely on pantomime forever, and a child your age should be starting to learn this anyway."

I frowned. On this page alone was three Letters that meant nothing to me. I flipped the pages and saw many more. I looked to him again, attempting to convey what I felt. _What is the point of this?_

Mycroft sighed, pointing to a line on the inside cover. It too ended with an E, and it started with the last Letter on my arm. "Write your name there, Eve."

I grabbed the red crayon from the box before me, doing as he told me. Smiling, I also added my snake and apple. Those I knew.

"That is precisely what I mean. Not everyone knows that is a snake and an apple, and not everyone knows that means your name is Eve. But when people see those three letters, if they can read then they know who you are. It is the same with other words; if you can write them and they can read them, you can communicate."

This could not be true. I was without a voice. Maybe for a reason, Mr. Jackyl always said that, but I was Sin. I had not been given a voice. And now this man claimed I _could_ have one?

He must have saw what I thought. He was good at that. "I would not lie to you, Eve. Everyone deserves a chance to speak. This is yours. If you want it. Just trace the letters out, and they spell what the picture is. Each Letter has a sound. I can help you."

I wrote the five letters. There were only four Letters, but one repeated.

"Now, Eve, the first Letter is A..."

I noted that the upside down V with the line was an A, but at the same time I was noting something else new, something that was not a Letter but something I could not quite apply a word to. I was not quite sure, but I believed that I had discovered what people called Kindness.

So far, Kindness was even better than not waking up in the dark.


	12. The Fire Itself

_"Words are only painted fire; a look is the fire itself" - Mark Twain_

**__**

Watson

"Doctor, can you not keep that child still?"

"Well, it is not my fault that _someone_ thought it would be a good idea to give the girl a lemon custard for breakfast, Mycroft!" I retorted with a glare at the elder Holmes, plucking Eve from off the floor of the train compartment and setting her on my lap.

"You said she should eat if she wanted to!" the portly Holmes replied with a scowl.

"I didn't say _everything_ she wanted to! Eve, look, you simply must calm down now," I told the girl seriously.

Holmes was watching this with a deal of amusement, smoking a cigarette despite the very clear warning on the door that this was a non-smoking compartment. I rolled my eyes at his elder brother, who shrugged as if to say _As if I can stop him?_ Then I turned my attention back to the wriggling girl on my knees.

She scrambled down and picked up a book, climbing back up to me and indicating I was to look at it.

"You've been teaching her to read, Mycroft?" I asked.

The elder brother shrugged and tossed me a small package of crayons.

Eve took the blue one out of the box and looked quizzically up at me.

"No, no, don't write in the book. Here," I said hastily, pulling out my little notebook and handing it to her, "you can write in here, only on the blank pages, mind."

She gave me a tiny grin and opened the book to a blank page. Then, after glancing up to see that I was watching, she printed a very passable 'apple', studiously copying the word from the primer and then looking at me hoping for praise, which I gave her accordingly.

Mycroft Holmes seemed to be dozing and his younger brother was drumming on the wall with his fingers trying to release nervous energy, and so I took one of the crayons and printed the word 'Mycroft' under the girl's 'apple'.

Eve looked up at me, puzzled. I pointed to the elder Holmes and then back to the word on the paper, and saw the child's face light up with sudden quick comprehension. She really was a remarkably intelligent little one.

It was the work of a few moments for her to copy the word rather shakily but still legibly on my notebook and turn a beaming face in my direction.

"Why don't you go show him what you did, Eve?" I said helpfully, setting the girl down and giving her a nudge.

The child hopped over and shoved my notebook into Mycroft's ample stomach, causing him to sit up with a grunt.

"What is it?"

Eve pushed the book up to his face, and he squinted.

"That's very nice," he muttered, looking helplessly at me. I gave him a warning look that obviously told him to praise the child.

"Very nice indeed, Eve - I am flattered you can write my name," he added uncertainly.

I sighed. Not bad, I supposed, for a Holmes.

Younger brother snickered loudly at this escapade, and Eve sent him a glare that even I never would have given him. Then to my eternal surprise, and great amusement, she did the first actually childish thing I had seen I had known her.

She stuck her little tongue out at my dear friend and flounced back to me in rather a pout.

Mycroft Holmes nearly roared with laughter as his younger brother turned red in the face, and I hastily hid my laughter behind the girl's primer as we rattled onward toward Derby.

**__**

Holmes

"Eve, stop chasing the fowl!" my brother called as the girl pulled Watson along in pursuit of a large feathered creature, sending it scuttling out of harm's way as we walked up to the front door of the house.

Watson swung the girl up into his arms and followed us as my brother knocked on the door, his face flushed as much as the girl's from his efforts to keep the sugar-energised child corralled.

Barington proved to be a smallish, balding man with a large country accent and absolutely no backbone. It took Mycroft only one question and a glare that could turn sand to glass before he was spilling his story. I wondered briefly if Sinclair had known their safe house was so limp.

"I d-didn't even want to do this," the man stammered out, twisting his hands in one another and staring at his dirty nails rather than having to meet three sets of probing eyes. "I borrowed m-money from... From that devil Sinclair! To keep t-this farm, y-you see, after my father died. B-But disease hit in the second year and c-c-couldn't repay him. If I hadn't agreed to store the safe t-they left here, h-he would have just taken the farm. Knowing him, he might even have killed me! I-I swear, I didn't even know t-there was something that important in it! I-It's not here anymore; someone came to fetch it a while back."

"How long ago did Sinclair leave with the Ruby, Barington?" my brother asked in the voice he reserved for stern lectures.

"S-seven months ago, at least, maybe a little more?" the little farmer replied, glancing nervously from one to the other of us.

Of course there was no point in prosecuting the man due to the gag order and so on, and the promise of no repercussions had served to loosen the man's already too eager tongue.

"You are certain of this?" I interjected.

"Yes, seven months, that's it," the man replied.

"The same time Mason started running for Minister," I said to Mycroft.

"A very brilliant deduction, Sherlock," he replied with a dry sarcasm.

I glared at him as Watson smirked before turning his attention back to the girl, who was wandering about looking at things in the small parlour where we were seated. Watson hastily stopped her from picking up a glass figurine and settled back with her on his lap, and she appeared to be content there.

I shook my head in wonderment at my friend's uncanny ability to inspire trust, but then my attention was arrested by what appeared to be...ash? Under Barington's fingernails.

Ashes, under the nails of a poultry farmer - odd, certainly. I wasted no time in questioning the man about it.

"Ah, well, Mr. Holmes, I was helping to clean up a house fire on a neighboring farm," the man said, glancing from me to my brother. "Sorry business, that. Poor Mrs. Harley."

"Harley?" Mycroft inquired, glancing at me.

"Yes, the good lady was married to Jacob Harley, widowed a good many years back. Poor dear was caught in the fire, apparently," Barington said with a look of remorse.

"Burned to death?" Mycroft asked, "or smoke inhalation?"

I saw Watson shoot him a meaningful look, glancing at Eve with a worried countenance. But surely the girl had heard worse things than a simple statement of death.

"The whole place was burnt to a cinder," Barington replied, "they only found parts of the woman's -"

"Yes, all right, we can use our imaginations," Mycroft added impatiently, finally catching sight of Watson's glares and ending the interview, seeing that Eve was watching us all closely.

"You are lucky this investigation is not interested in prosecuting you, Barington," my brother said imperiously, drawing himself up to his massive height and looking down upon the poultry farmer.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes, thank you, sir," the man's cringing was rather nauseating and I followed Watson and the girl outside without preamble.

I watched in amusement as Eve leant over the side of my friend's grasp to gaze at a large bantam rooster. The animal squawked indignantly as another fowl came too close to it and the child scrambled back to the safety of my dear friend's arms, looking up at him with a childish questioning.

Ten minutes later we were in the small trap we had appropriated at the station and were heading back toward Derby, my brother insisting that the morning had been most productive and it was now time for luncheon.

I glanced over at Watson and saw that Eve was far from being tired as I had anticipated (no doubt thanks to my brother's not-so-brilliant choice of breakfast food) but was bouncing on his lap, eagerly looking out over the countryside, taking it all in with a wide-eyed wonder.

Upon our return to Derby, my brother located a hostelry that would apparently satisfy his hunger and we sat round a wooden table discussing Barington, Sinclair, and the Ruby.

Watson was reading a local Derby newspaper, clearly not interested in my brother's and my deducing games, and Eve was practicing her newest word in his notebook over and over in purple crayon, each time showing it to my brother with tolerable pride.

"Yes, yes, you're doing splendidly, Eve," my brother said for the thirtieth time, finally taking the time out to print the word 'Watson' for her and tell her to copy it, pointing to my friend's head that was just visible above the periodical and setting the girl to copying again furiously.

Mycroft then turned back to me with a tired shake of the head. "As I was saying, Sherlock -"

"Holmes?"

We both turned to see Watson folding up the paper with a rather excited look upon his face, glancing from one to the other of us as if he had some news to impart.

"What is it, Watson?" I asked, leaning over to see the paper he was indicating.

"This article, about the fire at the old Harley place," he replied excitedly, pointing to the article in question, "look - it says that the woman's maiden name was Mason!"

I snatched the paper and skimmed the article.

"Well, Sherlock? Don't be so infuriating!"

"He's right, Mycroft," I read emphatically, tossing the paper over to my brother. "And this article informs us that this woman who died in that mysterious fire was Bradford Mason's older sister."


	13. Cool One Pain

_"If I can stop one heart from breaking,  
I shall not live in vain.  
If I can ease one life the aching,  
Or cool one pain,  
Or help one fainting robin  
Unto his nest again,  
I shall not live in vain." - Emily Dickinson_

**Holmes**

I observed Eve during the ride out to the site of the Harley house. She spent most of the time shifting between the laps of Watson and Mycroft to see out both windows, and yet on her face was the expression of a person trying to remember something after a very long time.

Watson, as ever, welcomed the girl, but Mycroft was not so enthusiastic. "Eve, would you please sit still _in your own seat_?" Although he did not raise his voice near the end, his tone went colder, harder. There was the voice that could send prime ministers scraping to obey my brother, a necessary tone when one held all the answers and needed them to be listened to.

The girl immediately went to her own place beside me, dark eyes wide and face paler than usual, rabbit clutched tightly against her chest.

"Mycroft!" Watson abolished, scowling furiously at my brother. "You can't talk that way to a child, especially one like her! You've scared her!"

"She's fi..." he began to dismiss with a wave of his hand before he looked over and saw her pressing herself against the corner of the hansom, bottom lip quivering. His fleshy face fell a bit. "Oh."

"Oh? Is that all you can say?" My dear friend had taken a tone I had very rarely heard before and reminded me a bit of my grandmother. "She's terrified! You can't order her about like you do your underlings, Mycroft. Apologize to her!"

"_Apologize_? Doctor, really..."

"Mycroft, do you really want her to start crying?" I put in, glancing sideways to the tiny child.

My brother gave a heavy sigh and a roll of his watery eyes. "Eve... I am very sorry I spoke to you in such a manner. I didn't mean to scare you."

She peeked around her bunny at him, looking rather sceptical and hurt at the same time.

"It won't happen again," Mycroft added, holding out his hand in a gesture of peace.

Eve stared at his hand for a moment before smiling and plopping her rabbit in it in lieu of shaking it.

To my surprise, Brother Mycroft handled this with a long sigh and a not entirely forced smile as he placed the toy on her lap. "I think you need him far more than I do, but thank you. Why don't you work on your writing?"

Eve was busy writing out 'flower' for the fifth time when we arrived at the charred square of earth that had been a home a week ago according to Barington. I always found fires rather depressing; they wiped the slate clean of all the things that had ever happened in the home, they destroyed most evidence and clues, and in this case it had eliminated our latest witness.

"An overturned candle doesn't do this thorough of damage," murmured Mycroft as he descended from the four-wheeler first and made his way towards the rubble. "This fire was intentional."

"How can you be so sure?" Watson questioned, looking sideways at him.

"See the grass around the house? The closest grass is burnt, but not much else. In dry weather like this, the whole field should have been burnt to ash. The house is quite sheltered from the wind by the surrounding trees, making it unlikely the fire could jump to the grass when it had the more combustible wood of the house. The fire was lit at both ends of the house at the same time, so they met in the middle of the house and burnt themselves out, leaving the grass untouched."

"You seem to know quite a bit about methods of burning." Watson sounded rather impressed, although his attention was more on the child he was attempting to keep reigned in. "Eve, be careful! We have no idea what's in there!"

"My first job with the government was inspecting arson sites. One of my majors was applied physics. I ended up leaning towards my political sciences eventually, of course." Mycroft turned up his nose at the mess of ash. "I claim no fondness for fire, however. Far too messy."

"You'll be pleased, then, that I recommend you stay here," I spoke, myself having no fear of dirt and heading into the inky abyss. "If someone falls through something it's bound to be you."

My rotund brother scowled but could not argue with the logic. He had no desire for physical snooping, anyway, and was content to circle the house for cleaner leads.

Eve, on the other hand, followed at my heels, albeit with a slight hesitance. There was that expression of vague familiarity again, this time stronger.

"I believe this may not be her first visit here," I commented to Watson as we watched the girl wander down the nearly impassable stairs to the stone cellar, covered with ash like everything else in the perimeter but because of its composition and position in the damp earth, less touched than the rest of the house had been.

"Eve, be careful," called Watson as we followed her, having a harder time on the stairs than the slight creature. He paused when he saw her approach a far corner and brush away at something. "What is that...?"

I made several long strides over to the metal cube, giving Eve an absent-minded pat on the head to shoo her away. "I believe it was a fire-proof safe, Watson."

He gave a macabre chuckle. "Couldn't have been a very good one."

I had to agree with him; the hinges and lock had melted halfway off and when I cracked the front off with minimal effort, I saw that many of the things in it had combusted from the sheer heat of the fire. I squatted down to pick up the remains of two oilskin envelopes that had kept parts of some paper from going up.

"Blackmail..." murmured my friend, informing me that he was reading the documents over my shoulder.

"Precisely, dear Watson. These are notes exchanged between Jackyl and Hyde, from both men to others... One from Sinclair himself. Preparation plans, a simpler map of the palace... Nothing implementing Mason, however. I'm quite certain this was with his sister for a reason; he likely informed her something along the lines of if he died a suspicious death to release these papers to the public. It was his safeguard against Sinclair."

"So they made certain it was gone before killing Mason. These documents would never stand up in court on their own," he concluded, scowling slightly. "But how did they know they were here...?"

I handed the first envelope full of charred paper and surviving scraps to Watson, moving on to the second and more intact one. My eyes widened when the first thing I pulled out was a picture I recognized from the mug shot I had looked up.

Jackyl.

I glanced down at Eve in time to see her give a noiseless whimper and move further behind Watson, her eyes averting themselves from the paper.

"Why is that here, Holmes? Why on earth..." He fell silent when I removed the bundle of letters, eaten at by fire but smooth words in rough ink still visible on what remained.

It only took me a quick scan of some of the letters to confirm what the picture had made me suspect. "Jackyl and Mrs. Harley were lovers, I'd say for about six years. She likely kept these in the safe so Mason wouldn't stumble across them on his visits. Jackyl speaks here of revealing all their secrets before considering being wed... She must have told him, and he betrayed her to Sinclair. For a rare instance it is the man betraying the woman." I looked over when Eve gave a slight cough, covering her face with her sleeve. "The child has the right idea, Watson. Let's get out of here before the three of us come down with miner's lung."

This was an elating new discovery. The letters might hold some clue as to where Jackyl had fled to, and the blackmail evidence might fulfill its purpose and lead us to the key players in the increasingly lethal chase. At least I knew why Eve had seen Derby as one returning; Jackyl must have had her with him on at least one visit.

The group of us made our way up the stairs with extreme caution (in Eve's case, however, there was only so much caution a five-year-old possessed) to where Mycroft was waiting for us, looking far from optimistic at our appearances.

"You look like a trio of chimney sweeps," my brother sighed, reaching for his handkerchief but replaced it when he saw that trying to clean Eve with a square of cloth would be like attempting to empty the Atlantic with a teacup. "Did you find anything helpful?"

Knowing it would infuriate him, I thrust the sooty envelopes in his hands. "The first tells us Mason used blackmail to keep himself alive. The second tells us Harley's little romance with Mr. Jackyl is what got both of them killed."

Despite this information, Mycroft scowled at his now blackened cuffs. "Sherlock, honestly, did you age mentally at all past the age of twelve?"

"I did, but I try not to let anyone know. If we catch the next train out, we should be back in London in time to get a decent night's sleep before having to piece through these letters for anything of importance." At the moment, all four of us looked in desperate need of a hot bath and a good night's sleep, in that order.

The sugar in Eve's bloodstream had apparently tapered out over the course of the day as she was quiet as we boarded the train (civilly and leisurely, much to Mycroft's enjoyment, rather than sprinting to catch it par usual). Five minutes into the journey home, both she and my brother were napping, the former having settled in the latter's lap after he had drifted off. While Watson was her oak, Mycroft's lap was likely more comfortable.

"She seems to have forgiven him quite thoroughly," I noted softly with a wry, tight smile.

My dear friend nodded, a more natural smile upon his own face. "I don't think he meant to be so sharp with her. Your brother is merely someone used to being able to control his environment. I cannot see how you survive childhood if you aggravated him more then than you do now."

"Oh, I likely did tenfold," I murmured, not wanting to wake either dreamer from their reprise. "As a squire, our father was away from home quite often and therefore Mycroft was the only available male to model myself after. I quickly discovered it was far more fun to annoy him than to act like him, however."

Watson chuckled. "I pity him, Holmes."

"As do I, as a matter of fact." I paused, my eyes on the scenery quickly passing us by. "Did Mycroft tell you why he doesn't care for anything sweet, Watson?"

He shook his head, curiosity making itself known upon his features. "No. He avoided it, actually."

"He was eleven, I was four... It must have been our nanny's day off because she abhorred letting me near Mycroft's chemicals, which is likely the reason I laid hands on them any chance I could. He was doing some sort of experiment with acids, I believe he was trying to see what bases would neutralize his current favourite so any accidents could be quickly corrected."

"A planner even at that age," noted Watson. I knew he was thinking of my own style of experimenting; to merely barrel on ahead and deal with disasters as they came. Mycroft, on the other hand, would not take a step without three unrelated plans to carry out if something went wrong.

"You don't know the half of it, my friend. In any case, he was a bit more absorbed than usual and I was a bit more disobedient than usual. I began fiddling with his chemicals, no actual goal in mind, merely pouring. He didn't notice until I had mixed two different acids with a test tube full of glucose. He shouted my name, I was startled and threw up my hand..."

I remembered the scene too clearly for my liking. He had bled quite a bit and ruined the very rug he had been trying to preserve by developing an effective neutralizer. Later he would write that all he could taste was sugar and his own blood.

"It got inside his mouth, nearly directly inside somehow. If he hadn't already gotten a reasonably good base worked out it likely would have eaten through the other side and left him looking worse than the Phantom of the Opera. He couldn't talk for the longest time... He had to keep a salve on the burned areas which the doctor sweetened with sugar, likely trying to help but in Mycroft's opinion only making it worse. Luck was with him, though... The only teeth it damaged were primary teeth, the scaring on the outside of his face was so minimal it's not even visible today, and he did regain speech eventually."

"I take it he learned the value of silence and applied it when he began his club."

"Oh, very, very likely. From the moment it happened until the moment I was permitted to see him again, Watson, I had never been so miserable. I thought that I had killed my brother. Looking back, I suppose he might have died from either blood loss or infection; thank god infection never set in. When our grandmother led me to his room, I hugged him and refused to let go for a good twenty minutes. I never knew why he forgave me after that incident."

"Because you are my brother, you ignoramus," rumbled Mycroft from his seat, eyes still shut and the solemn expression of sleep still present despite his consciousness.

Watson jumped but I remained still. "Would you be so eager to forget if you had gained the ability to sip a straw through your cheek?"

His watery eyes opened, falling on me before glancing down at his tiny passenger. "You are my little brother, Sherlock. I have an obligation to you. Besides..." Here he smiled, slightly but visibly. "The most orderly lives need disruption to display how preferable order is."

I chuckled, quickly ceasing when I saw Eve stir. The poor little fallen robin who would either be returned to her nest or placed into a new one entirely. In the meantime, however, the three of us who could hardly manage our own selves were to help mend her wing and her heart. A daunting task, but one we had no choice but to accept.

We parted ways at the station. When Watson and I returned home, I noted that Mrs. Hudson had been up to clean.

"I think your brother was right, Holmes," commented my friend as he scanned our moderately tidy abode. "If at all possible, would it be too much to ask to be permitted to enjoy order for a short time?"

"No promises, my dear Watson," was my reply as I began to hunt for a scrapbook.


	14. Crafty and Winsome

__

"It is not easy to be crafty and winsome at the same time, and few accomplish it after the age of six." - John W. Gardner

****

Watson

"No more lemon custard today, I hope?" Holmes asked dryly, seeing how Eve was no less active this morning than she had been yesterday.

"No, Sherlock, she is simply recovering marvellously," Mycroft replied as I hastily lifted the girl down from my writing desk - I wanted no blue-crayoned _Watson_'s all over my journals.

"Any fresh news to hand?" the younger Holmes asked.

"Here. The Yard found this packet of letters in Jackyl's caravan."

I paid only half-hearted attention as the brothers performed a hasty deduction-and-dissection on the letters, their origins, and a multitude of random facts I could see no point in bringing up.

Eve had pulled me eagerly down to the floor and was sprawled there with my notebook (I had forgotten to get it back from her yesterday) and her primer, showing me how she could write her name as well as Mycroft's and mine.

I took the crayon from her and printed a clear 'Holmes' under Mycroft's name. She frowned and shook her head, pointing to the younger of the brothers and glaring at me as if to say _Don't confuse me._

"No, no, Eve, every person has two names," I explained slowly.

She looked at me quizzically, then frowned.

"Mycroft's first name is Mycroft, his second name is Holmes," I said, pointing with the crayon to the elder Holmes, who was in the middle of correcting his brother about a faulty deduction.

The girl pointed to the younger with a frown and a question in a pert little eyebrow.

I printed a neat 'Sherlock Holmes' beside Mycroft's name, and she studied it intently.

Then, she pointed to both 'Holmes' names on the page and glanced back at me.

"Yes, they're the same last name - they are brothers, Eve," I explained, pointing to the two Holmeses.

Another wordless question. I was about to explain when she apparently lost interest in the fact and pointed to me, then to my name on the paper. Smiling, I printed 'John' beside my last name. She frowned and shook her head, glaring again at me in confusion.

"Oh, you're thinking my other name is Doctor, aren't you?" I asked with a smile.

I was pleased my small deduction appeared to be correct, for her face unwrinkled. I was about to write my title on the page when I was interrupted rather rudely by an impatient Sherlock Holmes.

"Watson, why aren't you taking notes about these letters!"

"Would you rather I let you baby-sit the girl while I do so?"

"Hmm, no. But you might listen at least, instead of crawling about the floor."

Eve glared at my friend with a venom, glancing at me as if to ask why I tolerated being spoken to in such a manner. I smiled and patted her head as I scrambled to my feet, saying nothing for I did not know why myself.

"What's in the letters?"

"Some of them are from Mrs. Harley, Doctor, and a few are from Sinclair," the elder Holmes informed me. "There were likely more that he did not keep; these are fairly recent."

"Sinclair was contacting Jackyl directly?" I questioned, glancing down to Eve. I saw her cringe slightly at the name but was attempting to busy herself with her primer. "I thought you two had concluded he was a smaller player."

"Jackyl had apparently two uses in this grand scheme," answered Holmes, steely eyes searching one of the letters. "One was to keep safe whatever clue was marked by the girl's cross, and the second was to gain information from Mason's sister in hopes she'd help them know what safeguards her brother had in place. She held out quite a while, but here she speaks of how she can tell Jackyl truly loves her, how she believes he is getting out of the crime ring, how he always say the right things..."

My stomach gave a bit of a twist. He had used her like a puppet with her heartstrings dangling from his fingers. "Sinclair was telling him what to say..."

"Excellent and exactly, Watson." There was pride in my friend's voice. "Jackyl was all too eager to get into Sinclair's good books and turned what began as a legitimate relationship into an affair that ended in Mrs. Harley being burnt alive and her brother being shot to pieces."

Mycroft gave a roll of his eyes. "You do not need to be so graphic, Sherlock. In any case, we now know _why_ Mason was killed. Tracking down enough proof for a criminal case against Jackyl and finding the second gunman, which Jackyl himself will likely rat out under pressure, is what we must concentrate on. If we find the Ruby, well... But our priority is drawing the heat away from the prime minister."

"What do you recommend we do now?" I asked, sparing a glance back at Eve. She was starting to toy with something and I moved to take it.

"The carnival has moved on now, Sherlock, but I would take the girl and see if she can give you any clues in the Park," Mycroft suggested, putting on his hat and preparing to exit.

"I was about to suggest that," younger brother replied in irritation.

"I don't doubt it. Watch her carefully, Doctor - she's a little handful of energy this morning!"

"So I see," I replied dryly, pulling Holmes's clay pipe from her curious hands and handing it to my friend with a frown. "You can't leave things like that lying about, Holmes!"

"Doctor, if you can get him to pick up after himself, you are of a stronger character than either of our parents were," Mycroft said as a parting shot, finally shutting the door behind him with rather a bit of force.

"Eve, stop that!"

"Don't try to draw the attention away from yourself, Holmes," I said indignantly, seeing that the girl was being very careful, not touching but just looking at the microscope on the table.

Holmes pulled a very childish face and threw my coat at me, nearly hitting me in the face.

"You know I hate that!"

"Collect the girl and let us be off, Watson," he replied impatiently, bellowing for Mrs.

Hudson to 'get us a cab this instant!'.

Eve cringed at his vehemence, looking up at me with trepidation.

"Nothing is wrong, my dear, this is perfectly normal for Mr. Holmes," I assured her, tucking Bunny into her sling and swinging her up into my arms as we descended the stairs after my shouting friend.

**__**

Holmes

The ride to Barnard Park was not over-long, but I for one was thoroughly exhausted by the time we reached it from trying to ignore the girl as she bounced about, pointing at things we passed and forcing Watson to answer a never-ending string of wordless questions. I still stand amazed at his patience.

We walked through the park, which still bore traces of the absent carnival, and I was extremely pleased to see that the resilient child appeared to be completely at ease in the place, perhaps not identifying the location with the pain associated with the carnival. Only a few times did she cast a wary glance round, although she was sticking very close to Watson.

A butterfly flitted past my friend and the child, and she tugged eagerly on his hand and followed it, dragging a chuckling Watson along with her while I inspected the scene with a narrowed gaze, turning over the possibilities of the case in my mind.

I watched with amusement as the girl saw the insect come to rest on a park bench and turn toward Watson, holding out that atrocious stuffed rabbit for him to take; obviously she wanted her hand free to look at the butterfly.

Then suddenly I jumped in horror as I heard the report of what was an unmistakable gunshot. Watson jerked back suddenly, dropping the rabbit, then grabbed the startled girl and pulled her behind the bench, shielding her from further shots, but there was only silence as I sprinted toward them, my heart in my throat.

I will be the first to admit I was immensely relieved to see that he had not been hit, and neither had Eve evidently, though she was clinging to him in fright, shaking all over and crying noiselessly.

"We're fine - the bushes, there!" he called as I drew near, pointing to a stand of shrubbery from which the shot must have come.

At his reassuring nod, I veered to the right and set off in pursuit of the sniper.

I heard a crashing sound to my left and saw a slim figure sprinting away through the park. He was fast, but nowhere near fast enough, and I soon caught up with him, knocking him to the ground in a tackle Watson would have been extremely proud of. I saw the flash of sunlight upon steel and twisted his wrist sharply, sending the revolver flying into the bushes.

I pulled his arm behind him in a Baritsu arm lock and hauled him to his feet, only then realising how not-overly-smart it had been to have tackled him knowing he had a gun on him. Too late to think now, however, and I pulled him up to see -

To see the same sandy-haired youth that had been walking the greyhound in the park the other afternoon when we left the Museum! I knew there had been something rather wrong about the lad - to think that he was the type to shoot at a helpless child? Not to mention that Watson might have been killed had he been holding the girl at the time of the shot...

I felt my face darken with suppressed anger and I jerked the shaking lad - for he was but a youth - back in the direction we had come, after pocketing the gun which I dug out of the bushes.

"I - I didn't m-mean for the sh-shot to be th-that close," he was stammering over and over, "j-just supposed t-to be a w-warning, I swear -"

"You're extremely lucky you didn't hit either of them," I spat through clenched teeth, giving the man a good shake, which I found very satisfying.

A moment later we had reached Watson and the girl, who was still crying, her head buried in Watson's shoulder. Sad, really, that one so young could understand the danger so well at that age; she had obviously seen and heard guns go off before.

Watson's usually soft eyes were filled with anger as he patted the girl's back gently, glaring at the lad I was dragging unceremoniously up to him. When we drew near, he wordlessly handed me Eve's stuffed rabbit - the shot had nicked one of the floppy ears and stuffing was now peeking out of the hole.

"I felt the wind of that shot, Holmes," he said, "two inches either direction and -"

"I d-didn't mean f-for it to be s-so close! I'm a h-horrible shot!" the youth was stuttering, obviously in fear.

"That is the only thing that's keeping me from braining you right here!" I growled, "believe me, lad, you have some explaining to do. **Now**."


	15. The Hardest Things

__

"One of the hardest things in life is having words in your heart that you can't utter." -James Earl Jones

****

Holmes

I was very glad that the young man (who had been identified as Ethan Lutes) was trembling like an autumn leaf when the men at Scotland Yard had finished booking him and had tossed him in an interrogation room for me to deal with. Or, rather, had sent Lestrade in and had "permitted" me to attend. Lestrade was likely thinking of a promotion boosted up by my skills, but even he had balked at the crying girl in Watson's arms. My dear friend had kept the girl with him rather than follow me, and he had mentioned something about trying to scrounge up some thread to mend the treasured rabbit's ear.

"You'd best talk," the inspector spoke, voice far firmer than it ever was on the street, his glare almost suitable for the situation. "And you'd best talk very, very quickly, for my patience is not at its best." For good measure he slammed his fist into the flimsy table, making the wretched creature before us nearly jump through the ceiling.

Dear god, was he attempting to imitate me? I hoped not, for either he was doing a terrible job or I came across far too much as some noble literary hero.

"L-L-Look, I t-told you, I didn't mean for the shot to be that close!" the lad bemoaned, putting his head rather violently into his folded arms. "I didn't mean for it to be near anyone... I only mean to scare you and then... W-Well, you know, take control of the situation. Gage said that'd be the best thing to do!"

"Gage...?" I questioned, my ears perking at a new name.

The sandy-haired man gave another groan. "Oh, I wasn't supposed to... I can't tell you..."

"You give us names, you'll be less likely to swing!" put in Lestrade before I could even open my mouth. "I don't think a judge is going to be too kind to someone who might have shot a well-known public figure and a child otherwise!"

His face went as pale as a boiled egg (with the same amount of grey and yellow as one, as well) at the mention of the gallows. He obviously had had no idea just how deeply he would be buried if his poorly-constructed plan crumbled around him like wet cardboard. "S-S-Swing...! You can't be serious...!"

"He is, believe me," I smirked, glad that this would not be a lengthy interrogation. Sinclair had a habit of taking advantage of the weak, and while this was all very good when things went as planned, the moment they veered off course the same weaklings that were so easy to be bullied would spill all they knew to the authorities at the merest threat.

"Harry Gage!" Lutes could not spit it out fast enough. "I'm in medical school, I needed money, and no bank approves a starving student! I borrowed money, but then I failed a year..." He buried his head further. "He said it would be simple. That no one would get hurt... All he wanted was some map."

I exchanged a glance with Lestrade. He looked like someone had hit him over the head with a spade. "Map?" I asked. "What map?"

"I don't _know_! I was just told that the girl knew where a map was that lead to somewhere! They didn't tell me much! They didn't even tell me enough to succeed at this!" Yet another moan. He was starting to sound like a wounded animal (Lord knows I yearned to put him out of his misery). "I'm going to get kicked out of medical school for this, aren't I?"

"Furthering your education is the last thing you ought to be worried about," snorted the ever-tactful inspector. "So where can we find this Harry Gage?"

"His offices are down Hampton Street but I'm smart enough to know you won't find his name connected to anything in the whole city. Oh... Oh, I can't hang! I can't die for this! I never would have hurt her! I can't even eat a fish!"

I had heard enough and let myself out of the interrogation room, leaving Lestrade to deal with the idiot. I almost felt sorry for him; a youth entirely lacking the criminal mindset played like a puppet for Sinclair's own gain.

There was too much on my mind to spend any length of time pitying him, however. The new information of a map was processing into the already established facts. Jackyl was not trusted with the Ruby itself, but rather with a clue to its location. I doubted if it was a full map; likely only a half or less. Sinclair seemed too cautious to assume the man would not get greedy and go after it himself.

But to claim that Eve had it... It would explain why they had marked her with the cross, to make sure she could not be mistaken for another if examined thoroughly. At the same time, however, if she had known of a map she likely would have told us earlier into the case. Her trust in us, especially in dear Watson, was concrete.

More likely, Jackyl had taken this map when he went, but if questioned perhaps she could give them details. As her fledgling writing skills developed (she was turning out to be a bright girl when not bouncing about, and Mycroft was an unorthodox but apt teacher), I hoped this would become an easier task than interpreting her pantomimes.

Mind already buzzing, I headed off to see how the injured Bunny was making out.

****

Watson

It had not been hard to scrounge up a small sewing kit once Holmes had followed after the arresting officers. As the girl watched with critical but thankful eyes, I poked the stuffing back into the rabbit and made a row of neat, medical stitches over the tear, tying it off before placing it back into her arms.

Face still wet with tears, Eve hugged her toy, looking up at me with a near-worshipping expression that made my heart warm. She may not have had many words yet to describe herself with, but her face was adequate in his case.

"Nothing to it at all," I smiled, repacking the sewing kit and ruffling her hair, making her grin. When the door leading into the hallway of interrogation rooms opened and my friend emerged, I rose to my feet. "What have you found out, Holmes?"

"That Sinclair is on the move for the Ruby," he murmured, grey eyes holding that look of deep thought that his brother's held perpetually. "Lutes was sent to retrieve a map, or at the very least information on where it might be, which confirms my theory that not even the ringleader of this grim little circus knows where the main attraction is at the moment."

I frowned, more than slightly confused. "A map? But why on earth would he go after Eve for that?"

"The man who set Lutes on her trail, Harry Gage, is under the impression that the girl knows the location of a map, or a fragment of one." He turned his sights on the girl, mildly intimidating and harsh enough to make her shrink back a bit. "_Do_ you?"

Eve shook her head rapidly, almost violently, as her hand tightened around her mended rabbit. I could see the tears beginning to remerge just when I thought she would have none left.

"She is not a suspect, Holmes, you cannot bully her like that," I put in quickly, my voice sharp as it rarely was, especially towards my most treasured friend. "She's been through so much in her life, let alone today, so I will not tolerate an interrogation of her. If she knew anything she would tell us."

More quick nodding until I rested a hand on her head to stop her. She was going to give herself a sore neck if that continued. I was not sure how Holmes could look into those huge dark eyes and still see her as just another piece in the puzzle. I certainly could not.

"We should get the poor girl some lunch soon," I mentioned, glancing at the clock. I myself could do with food; unlike Holmes, I had never been fond of starving myself in the name of time, and Eve was worn from the attempt Lutes had made on her.

"Sirs!" a voice called out as a slight figure scrambled from the crowds of officers towards us. I soon recognized the slipping glasses and nervous tone. The secretary finally reached us, face flushed from a rapid journey no doubt, a shopping bag in hand. "Mr. Holmes! Doctor!"

"Trevor," Holmes rapped out, eyes narrowing. "What are you doing here? Mycroft never misuses your time as a mere messenger boy unless no one else is to be trusted."

"Sirs, we just found out..." the man panted, attempting to catch his breath. "Fredrick Hyde was deemed legally insane in the court trial yesterday."

My friend arched a brow. "I am hardly surprised."

"He had a good lawyer who managed to have him transferred to an asylum. Though god knows between that and the noose I'd make friends with the rope... When they transferred him, there was an accident. Well, they say it was an accident, but Mr. Holmes suspects otherwise. A horse was spooked and in the confusion the door of the wagon was popped somehow..."

"Are you telling me..." I spoke slowly, my stomach lagging behind the rest of my body, the prospect of a meal abandoned for an icy, gripping sensation. I felt a tiny hand squeeze my own for comfort. "That Hyde is loose?"

Trevor was cringing as if the entire thing was his fault. "Mr. Holmes has his best men on it. Not normal inspectors; espionage. There are people worming their way into the hearts of Sinclair's various legitimate organizations looking for clues, and he has Hyde's old haunts staked out. He has made his capture a top priority. He asks that you be on your guard at all times, but feels it best that you keep the girl for the time being. I must inform Scotland Yard as well, so I suppose we part here..."

"What is in the bag?" questioned Holmes, ever blunt in his interrogations.

The man gave a start, likely having forgotten he was holding it. He now held it out to me. "A jacket. For Eve. Mr. Holmes had me pick it up; he said they're calling for a cold front and the girl's immune system is likely low as it is. He has no time, he says, to deal with a sniffling child." Trevor risked a smile, however small, in the girl's direction. "Personally, however, I think you may be growing on him."

Through her fear at one of her tormentors being at large, Eve managed a smile.

"Please, all of you, be very careful. Hyde may not be as far gone as he has led us to think, and the prison guards have said he had his moments of lucidity. And even a madman can wield a pistol." With that grim statement, the man scampered off to find someone reasonably in charge of Scotland Yard.

I lifted Eve into my arms, hugging her gently to me. "We'll find him before he does any harm. I promise."

"As do I," spoke Holmes, that look of deep thought upon him again.

I had trust in Holmes's abilities as well in the influence of his brother, but all the same as I held the frail child to me, I wondered how much safety we could actually promise.


	16. Desolate Souls

__

"No soul is desolate as long as there is a human being for whom it can feel trust and reverence." - T.S. Eliot

****

Watson

"Don't be an idiot, Lestrade! Or can you even help that fact?"

I sighed as Holmes started into the unfortunate Scotland Yarder, turning my attention away from the two combatants and focusing upon Eve, who was clinging to my leg with her one free hand, visibly shivering.

I knelt beside her and pulled Trevor's jacket from the bag. "Look what Mr. Holmes got for you, Eve," I said, holding up the coat, which was actually a very pretty shade of blue.

The child looked sceptical, sending my friend a dubious glance and setting me off laughing.

"No, no, Mr. _Mycroft_ Holmes," I said, grinning at her obvious disbelief.

Recognition flooded her frightened face, as well as the tiniest of smile, and I held out the coat for her to put on.

"There – you look very pretty, see?" I said, sweeping her up into my arms and walking over to a glass door so she could see her reflection.

In the glass I could see Holmes waving his arms, towering over the little Yarder, who was wincing at the volume of his voice. A sergeant walked by, stopping to stare curiously before grinning at the familiar sight and moving on once more.

"He's insane, Holmes – he'll be going after the girl!"

"He's still lucid enough to remember – "

I whirled and hastily sent him a warning glare, and his thin face flushed.

"To…remember other factors in the business, Lestrade," he finished a little less vocally.

"Mr. Holmes, my hands are tied as well as yours in this affair!" the inspector hissed, glancing nervously round him, "I can't do anything other than place a guard 'round Pall Mall."

"Mycroft's not going to be too happy about having a bunch of dimwitted constables bumbling about the area, but I suppose it must be," Holmes muttered, glancing at me.

Eve was staring wide-eyed at Holmes, her good arm wrapped tightly round the much-battered Bunny, and Holmes's voice and tone softened a bit.

"This man is going to make sure nothing happens to you or to Mycroft, Eve," he said, pointing to Lestrade.

I stifled a snicker as the girl raised her eyebrows and looked the Inspector up and down.

Lestrade flushed under the obviously dubious gaze and turned back to Holmes. "I'll send a couple of men over at once, and when the girl goes back this evening I'll double the guard. That's all I can do for now, Holmes."

"Very well. My brother did say he had his own men working on the other end, so among us all we should have the man within the day."

Lestrade nodded, glancing back at Eve and me. The girl evidently decided he passed inspection, for she gave him a timid wave as he turned to leave, which he a little awkwardly returned before heading back toward the office wing of the Yard.

"Come, Watson."

Once outside and in a cab headed for a local restaurant, I turned to Holmes after settling the girl between us on the narrow seat. She tugged on my watch-chain and I let her play with the timepiece while I questioned Holmes.

"Do you really think Hyde will go after – go to Pall Mall first?" I asked, changing my words so as not to alarm the girl further.

My friend's brows were knitted in an angry black line as the wheels of his mind spun at a rate that would have been dizzying to most men. "I believe, Watson, that Hyde is still sane enough to remember the Ruby. There is some missing connection in this affair, Watson, and it lies in Barnard Park – it is there that Hyde will go."

I sighed. "I suppose that means another sleepless night spent on a stakeout?"

"Watson, you scintillate this afternoon."

I scowled at him and wondered which of the other two occupants of this cab was the more childish.

Eve was not overly-enthusiastic about the Italian restaurant Holmes had chosen – although why _he_ chose it since he usually ate next to nothing was beyond me – and getting her to eat some soup was something that required both our full attention.

She was rather fascinated with the long breadstick that accompanied Holmes's meal, and after he fidgeted uncomfortably for ten minutes under her scrutiny he finally handed it to her, causing her to break into the first real smile since she had found out Hyde was loose.

I absently stopped her from scribbling my name on the white cloth napkins – if she was going to write on restaurant property I certainly did not want it to be _my_ name she wrote! – and glanced at Holmes. "Are we going to keep her with us, or send her back to your brother tonight?"

Holmes's forehead wrinkled. "We shall have to send her back if we are staking out the Park. I cannot spend my time there guarding a child – and personally I'd appreciate it if you were guarding me instead of her."

He was quite correct, of course, but I was very loathe to let the poor child out of my sight.

"You're sure Hyde won't go for Pall Mall?"

"I am certain of it – the man has his moments of lucidity, and he wants the Ruby, not the girl. Do try to stop worrying, old chap," he replied kindly. "Eve! Stop that!"

I choked back a laugh at his indignant face, for the girl was just about to print a big green 'Holmes' on the tablecloth. He yanked the crayon from her hand and tossed it across the table to me, glaring at me.

"_That_ is another reason why she's going back to Mycroft!"

**__**

Holmes

I did feel rather sorry for Watson, for I could tell from his expression he didn't quite trust the child's safety to anyone but himself, and as he set the girl down in front of Mycroft and she clung to his leg, hiding her face, his own features twisted in suppressed sadness.

It took us fifteen minutes to disengage her from my dear friend, and I believe all of us felt a little ill afterwards when she started to cry silently. As Watson picked her up and took her back to the spare bedroom, I stared morosely after them, vowing in my heart to put an end to this sordid business before anything else happened.

"Any news of Hyde, Mycroft?"

"None. My men have been able to turn up nothing."

"Lestrade has a squad of men outside, Mycroft – if I for some reason have calculated wrong and Hyde comes here, then you have a weapon and a police whistle?"

"Somewhere, yes," my brother replied, rummaging through an immaculate desk and laying his hands on the articles within seconds.

"Guard the girl well, Mycroft," I said quietly as my friend emerged into the hallway, his face drawn, "Watson will kill me if something happens to her."

"Have no fear, Sherlock, and you too, Doctor – and for pity's sake be careful tonight. Hyde is a maniac, and I really have not the time to deal with you getting yourselves killed. It would be a dreadful complication and Whitehall would not be happy in the least."

"Dear me, such sentiment from you, brother," I replied dryly, but I was glad to see a grin cross Watson's sad face at the statement, and within the hour we were on our way back to Barnard Park.

I was actually very glad that we were free of the girl for a bit, for our comfortable routine with each other had been very much disrupted the last few days by the constant presence of a third, and very vulnerable, party – I for one was slightly resentful of the fact and was thoroughly glad to have it as it should be now, just the two of us after a villain in the dead of night.

Upon our arrival in the Park, we quickly scouted round in the twilight and assured ourselves that Hyde had not yet been in the area of the carnival. I selected a large clump of bushes and heavy undergrowth through which we might be able to survey the area and we settled down against a tree trunk to wait.

"Do you really suppose Jackyl buried the Ruby 'round here?" Watson asked in a hushed voice.

"No, but I do believe it probable that he secreted the map to its location somewhere in the Park – he would have wanted to lay his hands on it within a few minutes if necessary," I replied, scanning the area for movement.

For the better part of an hour we sat talking quietly. After another hour in which we were silent for the most part, I noticed that Watson was shivering and suddenly realised I was thoroughly chilly as well – that cold front was indeed _very_ cold.

"Nights like this, I wish I'd remained a general practitioner," he grumbled, rubbing his hands together.

"Oh, come now, Watson. You'd have been bored out of your head with a life like that."

"At least I'd be bored by a nice fire!"

I chuckled and leaned forward to glance out of the bushes. There was a pale, cold moon, and it lit up the scene quite well.

Suddenly I heard a metallic clink, off to the side near where the caravans had rested in the clearing. I scrambled forward, peering out, and saw a furtive movement behind a tree, the weak light glinting off what I assumed was a shovel.

I felt Watson beside me, peeking out as well, and suddenly the haze that had been obscuring the moon moved on, strengthening the light – and we could see our quarry clearly at last.

It was Hyde.


	17. Derived Comfort

__

"Do not measure your loss by itself; if you do, it will seem intolerable; but if you will take all human affairs into account you will find that some comfort is to be derived from them." - St. Basil

****

Mycroft

Although I doubted Hyde would show his face on Pall Mall, the night held its own troubles for me. Namely. one shaken little girl who proved to be quite inconsolable. Really, who was to blame her? How many times had she been told it would be alright only to be kicked to the ground?

A day of organizing stealth missions off the cuff and trying to process all of the facts of Sinclair's recent activities had left me drained, and therefore I did not even notice when I drifted off at my desk. I awoke to tiny footsteps and before I was entirely awake wondered if I might have a rodent problem.

I opened my eyes to Eve, however, looking terrified at having woken me. Her cheeks were tear-streaked, her expression one of fear a child that young should not know. "Do not be so skittish," I quickly spoke, trying to sound as gentle as possible. Sensitivity did not come easy to me. "I should not have been sleeping anyway."

There was a cautiousness in her movements as she came forward that I had seen the first time she was here. No doubt Hyde being active had raised new terrors within her. Despite this, however, she did come to my side, lifting her good arm to indicate that she wanted up on the book-raised chair at my side.

"You do not need to practise your writing if you do not wish to," I spoke, setting the box of colours before her along with a stack of paper. "Draw what you wish." I hesitated, finally adding "Perhaps draw what you feel. It can feel good to get emotions out of your head."

Eve gave me a halting, not entirely honest smile, but did plop her recently wounded rabbit on the desk rather than his usual place beside her, so she at least trusted me not to toss the thing out when she wasn't looking.

I returned to my paperwork, stowing Jackyl's letters away for now. I could not distance myself from the case when its victim was sitting next to me. This sort of sympathy was entirely new; usually the people who benefited from my talents were half a world away. This one was sleeping in my spare bedroom.

When I lifted her down and told her to wash up for supper, I inspected what she had drawn. Dogs. Huge dogs overshadowing a tiny figure, likely herself. Sharp, disproportionate teeth and claws. There was also guns, pistols shooting fire and lightening. And the coffin I had seen in its tent with the flowers surrounding it. Simple people, a child's figures, and yet their revulsion was all too plain.

My heart was sinking beneath my ribs until I reached the last page. It had my name on the top and hers on the bottom, an apparent gift. A butterfly, wings blue and orange, simplistic flowers underneath it and sun and clouds above it. That picture kindled my tiny flame of hope that Eve could recover from her early life, and folded it neatly, tucking it inside my portfolio.

Dinner, however, threatened to snuff that flame. Mrs. Burgess had made chicken sautéed in garlic and Portobello mushrooms served with rice, soft enough that she should be able to handle it, but Eve would not even touch it. I offered anything else to her but was only met with a turn of her head. Despite my better instincts, in desperation I proposed taking her to a nearby shop for some sweets if she'd try the meal. My efforts were for naught. All she had was milk and I knew that was not enough, but there was little I could do about her resistance; I was not as good as coddling as the doctor was.

She spent the rest of the evening curled up in my armchair under a blanket. I spent it alternating between working and observing the plainclothes detectives on the streets who could not have been more obviously detectives. Her bath was an easy affair, the thing that troubled me most. Every other time, I had ended up getting as wet as she. When I sent her off to get into her nightgown I hoped sleep would improve. I would have done just that had I not heard her sniffling through the door when I went to double-check the door lock.

Had I possessed as stony as a heart as I wished to, I could have slept peacefully. I did not and I could not, and therefore I entered the room and came to her bed, sitting down. I ignored the creaking of the frame. "Eve...?"

She hid her face from me immediately, cocooning her shaking form under the quilt. She left her bunny behind, however, and she was forced to surface to retrieve him. She met my eye by accident when she did, and though she shrunk back she did not hide again.

"You do not need to be ashamed of your fears. I told you this before." I hoped I did not sound chiding. "You are young and they are valid. Come now, do you really have to cry?"

The tiny creature wiped at her face with the sleeve of her nightgown but it did little against the streaming tears. I could see helplessness in those eyes; complete and utter dependence on men who had been strangers not so long ago.

I slowly reached for the pocket of my dressing gown, drawing from it the silver police whistle. It was quite useless to me, in truth, for there was time enough to kill a man several times over before an officer could respond to it. I kept my rarely touched pistol by my bedside and that was enough. Eve, however, did not even have a scream to defend herself with. I slipped the cord it hung by around her neck.

"If there is something amiss, blow this. It is loud enough to rouse me and the inspectors on the street will hear it as well. I am just down the hall, and I promise that I will not let any harm come to you. Understood?"

I anticipated a nod, not a small child wrapping herself around my arm and burying her face in my sleeve.

I sighed. "Eve... Eve, you're getting my dressing gown damp. Let go now." No response, and I patted her back gently. "Yes, very nice. Now please let go. Eve, you need sleep. As do I. Let go." Negotiations failing, I merely lifted my arm, expecting her to drop off. For such a frail thing, however, she had a tight grip. When I stood, she remained. Defeated, I trudged into my room and settled. Only when I closed my eyes did the child release my now numbing arm.

Not finding the energy or the heart to return her to her own room, I let her be.

****

Watson

When I caught sight of Hyde, only Holmes's hand on my shoulder stopped me from going for him. This was the man who had played such a heavy hand in corrupting a child's fragile innocence, was part of the reason she had been on the brink of starvation, the one who benefited from the painful scars inflicted upon her back.

"We cannot attack him outright, old man. You know that," hissed my friend, right as always. "He has a spade; they can be rather handy weapons when push comes to shove, and metal meeting skull is never a pleasant introduction."

I relented at his touch, knowing him to be correct. This man was not worth either of us becoming out of commission with a concussion (though I doubt something so trivial would stop Holmes). At his silent gesture, I crept from the bushes to follow him, out of sight, closer to Hyde's location.

Although the man may have been lucid enough to come to the location with the correct supplies for his task, I wondered how much further his sanity stretched. He muttered to himself as he worked, nothing I could catch in its entirety but talk of dogs, corpses and maps were heavy.

I drew my pistol, squeezing its grip so tightly that my knuckles whitened. I knew Holmes would want to sneak up on him and take him as peacefully as possible, which I did not disagree with, but when a man like that was before me with a heavy spade, I did not want to be unarmed.

"Fredrick Hyde," Holmes spoke once we were behind him in a position of advantage. "We are armed, and we wish you would surrender yourself. The good doctor has no qualms about putting a piece of lead in you if you move to attack."

Actually, I had many qualms about doing that, especially after taking the Hippocratic Oath, but I also knew there were times when violence had to ensue to preserve life, and I would much rather see harm come to Hyde than to my dearest friend.

The man spun clumsily on his heel. No doubt his muscles and coordination had been weakened greatly from a year in a cell barely big enough to pace. "Who... Who are you...?" he panted, almost like a mad dog.

"Sherlock Holmes. We've met," Holmes replied. His voice lacked any trace of humour whatsoever. "Come peacefully, Hyde. You cannot fight us. Watson here has a sinkhole in his heart for the girl you helped batter, and it may just affect his trigger finger."

The man's grip tightened on the shovel. "Jackyl said we'd split it… Swore we'd split it…! We risked our necks hiding the thing from Sinclair! It's got to be here! That blasted paper has got to be here…!"

"You will not be getting the map or the Black Prince's Ruby," I replied levelling my pistol so that it was aimed at Hyde's heaving chest. "Come without struggle and you will be better off for it."

His eyes, feral and empty save for hate, narrowed as he looked upon us as if for the first time. "The girl has it, doesn't she? That little bitch pup has crossed my sights for the last time. I swear, I'll see her crippled if she does not give me…"

I fired a shot, well away from him but more than enough to give him a huge start, which gave Holmes the opportunity to leap at him, knocking him to the ground and the shovel from his hand. The villain gave a cry of pain as my companion twisted his arm around. Holmes was fighting the strength of the madman to notice one creeping hand.

"Holmes…!"

My warning came too late; Hyde had laid hand on the staff of the spade again and had swung it.

Its sharp edge grazed my friend's domed forehead, extracting a grunt of pain and a line of blood. It did not loosen his hold, however, merely moved it from Hyde's shoulders to around his throat.

The struggling stopped as all his energy went to drawing breath, and Holmes finally released his neck from his firm grasp, drawing a pair of irons (slipped into his pocket some time during our visit to the Yard, no doubt) and clapping them around the man's wrists.

"Good work, Watson," he smiled, although I was at a loss at how he could smile when he was bleeding so profoundly. "Believe me, his promise will not come true. He will hang after this, even if Mycroft has to pull a few strings to make it so."

I would not have believed that Mycroft cared so much for the child to exert himself as such, but then I recalled our first encounter with Lutes and the awkward but genuine comfort he had bestowed upon her. "You need medical attention, Holmes."

"Hang me as high as you like… Heights don't bother me… Truman says… Says that the government's power will fall…"

"Oh, shut up!" barked Holmes, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe at the blood with. He only succeeded in pushing it around. "Watson, either write down or remember to do a cross-reference for this Truman and the Mr. Gage Lutes mentioned."

I blinked. "Why would there be a connection there, Holmes?"

"Both the gun Lutes has and this shovel have traces of red henna on them. There is no such thing as a coincidence, Watson. We'll get this blackguard safely home to his cell and then we'll see about my minor flesh wound."

I have no idea how he saw trace amounts of anything in the darkness, and yet I knew it was there if he said it was. I also knew that it would do no good to argue with him about the injury, and so I had little choice but to help haul Hyde to his feet and drag him along. We attempted to hail a cab, but there were few out at that hour and fewer yet that wanted any part in our bizarre situation. Added to the fact that Hyde was making himself dead weight, we knew we would no make it to Scotland Yard.

"No matter," Holmes grinned through the ribbons of blood trailing down his lean, pale face. "All the inspectors are elsewhere tonight anyway."

****

Holmes

My ears were ringing, my head was spinning, and I felt on the verge of emptying what little I had eaten that day onto the cobblestones, but it was worth it when Watson and I dumped Hyde onto the sidewalk of Pall Mall before Lestrade.

"I can't believe it…" he said faintly, face holding a look of stupid astonishment. "I just can't believe it. How on earth did you know?"

"Simply knowing his nature, Inspector," I retorted, unable to keep a somewhat smug look from surfacing. "His greed outweighed his desire for revenge. Based on his words tonight, however, the scales might have tipped, so keep a closer eye on him this time, hmm?" Despite my triumph, the world was beginning to tilt back and forth a bit. I supposed I'd have to take Watson up on that offer of medical attention.

"How adverse is your brother to being roused in the middle of the night?" Watson questioned, taking on some of my weight for me. I could not find it in me to protest. "I have no supplies on me, a large oversight on my part, and even if I did I cannot get a proper look at the mess in this poor lighting. I do not trust you to make it home, old chap."

"Oh, ye of little faith…" I murmured, black spots starting to dance before me. "He won't be happy, but he'll be less so if I go without treatment, die, and leave all the footwork to him. As long as I mind not to bleed on his rugs, I should stay on that cherished level between annoyance and disposal."

"We'll have the park scanned for any traces of the map," Lestrade piped up, frowning slightly, presumably at my condition. "You might want to get him up as soon as possible, Doctor."

Watson gave a murmur of agreement and we started towards my brother's lodgings. We managed to get to the door and my companion pounded on it. Had my head not been threatening to fall from my shoulders, I would have told him to speak. Because he did not, the door was swung open to reveal the muzzle of a gun.

"You would not be the first to wish to shoot us, nor the first to," I managed to croak with a weak smile.

The weapon was immediately discarded when my brother, clad in a rumpled dressing gown, saw my face. "Sherlock...! Dear god, what happened to you? Come in, hurry! Are the pair of you alright? Sit down; you look about to fall over. What do you require, doctor?"

Typical Mycroft. Much more accustomed to spilled ink and blood and yet still jumping quickly from concern to usefulness.

"That rat Hyde..." I began, sinking into a dining room chair, before my brother shushed me quiet harshly. "He got me once with the shovel. He's worse off, and the rope will take the place where my hands were soon enough."

"Keep your voice to a minimum, both of you, unless you want to deal with a very frightened child whose great defender is seeping blood all over my oak floors. I'll get hot water and rubbing alcohol. Should I find some thick thread?"

"He won't be needing stitches," Watson replied, shaking his head as he examined me, staring into my pupils to check for a concussion. "Head wounds bleed quite a lot. I think he may have a very mild concussion, but all in all he was very lucky. Gauze would be wonderful, though, if you have it."

"With all the ways Sherlock has turned up here, I have learned to be prepared," sighed Mycroft with a shake of his head, heading off to fetch the promised items. "There's old towels in that cabinet, doctor, bottom drawer. I opted for dark wood for just this reason, but it will still stain, so if you would be so kind...?"

I heard a long-suffering sigh from Watson as he retrieved the towels, placing one to soak up the puddle already made and wiping my face as gently as he could with the other. "Have the pair of you always been this way?"

"Oh, not at all. Our relationship was quite amiable before I learned to talk, I'm told." I leaned my head back, closing my eyes. "I, for one, cannot believe Mycroft took his heart out of its safe deposit box long enough to allow the girl to sleep in his bed."

"How..."

"His dressing down is dishevelled, contrary to its usual pressed state, meaning for some reason he slept in it. If he went about his usual routine, he never would have. Secondly, if you'll note, Eve's door is open whereas Mycroft closed his own before answering the front door."

I could hear the smile in Watson's face. "He is not the statue he believes himself to me."

"Oh, Watson, Mycroft knows he is no heartless machine. He simply does not want others to know that."

"You have much in common, Holmes."

All I could respond with was "Hmm..."


	18. Breakfast with a Flourish

__

"Breakfast is a notoriously difficult meal to serve with a flourish." - Clement Freud

****

Watson

Despite my friend's vehement protests to the contrary, I could see that he was not feeling quite well after such an injury, relatively minor though it was. The clearest indication of how off he was feeling was the fact that for the remainder of our time at his brother's he said next to nothing.

I bandaged his head and started to clean up the blood, keeping an eye on Holmes's pale face.

Mycroft took the towels from me, heading to the bathroom. He then peeked into his bedroom before returning, and I smiled, thinking of the portly man comforting a crying little girl in the middle of the night.

"How is she?"

"Still sleeping, thank heaven," he growled, "now if I can just succeed in the same feat I might actually be able to function tomorrow. Honestly, Sherlock, half my life up to now has been spent either pulling you out of trouble or cleaning up after you when you're already in it!"

Holmes made no answer, and that worried me more than the pallor of his face – if he had no scathing retort to a brotherly insult like that he was definitely not feeling well.

"Come on, I'm taking you home now," I said firmly, pulling him gently to his feet.

He wavered for a moment before catching his balance, rubbing his bandaged head absently and leaning on my arm.

"Don't touch that gauze!"

"Oh, stop fussing, Watson," he muttered, glaring at me.

"Perhaps you should stay here, Sherlock," Mycroft said worriedly, looking at the two of us.

"Absolutely not! You rise at all ungodly hours of the morning, and you keep the place as neat as a mausoleum," younger brother said emphatically.

I felt a relieved smile cross my face, and the elder Holmes's forehead unwrinkled – that was more like it.

"I shall bring the girl by tomorrow as usual, Doctor," he said, following us to the door, "and Sherlock, you had better do as the Doctor orders or I shall make you wish you had."

Holmes growled something that sounded suspiciously like a rather base euphemism, and I hastily pulled him out the door before a brotherly row ensued, hailing a cab and taking him home at once.

He made relatively little fuss when I put him to bed after first ascertaining that the concussion was mild enough that he could sleep without risk, and after waiting two hours by his bed to make sure of his safety, I then trudged wearily up the steps to catch a few hours' rest myself before the morrow.

I woke the next morning, glancing at the clock and seeing that it was nearing ten – Mycroft would have been here close to an hour ago with the girl, and I had firmly told Holmes to stay in bed! What on earth? I scrambled through a hasty toilette and made my way downstairs to the sitting room.

Entering, I was immediately set upon by a rather more happy Eve than I had seen her last, coming flying at my legs in a hug, Bunny being discarded carelessly on the floor as she wrapped her good arm round me, her little face wreathed in a wide smile.

"Good morning," I said, with a returning smile, picking up the rabbit and swinging both her and it into my arms, glancing about the room, "did Mycroft tell you – _Holmes_!"

My friend was sitting cross-legged in front of my desk amidst a litter of papers and files.

"Mrs. Hudson laid breakfast. I didn't want to wake you," he said absently, tossing a file over his shoulder.

"You should not be up!"

"Doctor, save your bedside manner for when I am actually in need of it, I am perfectly fine," he replied, glancing up and tapping the clean bandage on his head.

I glared at him but knew full well that I might as well save my breath. He smirked and turned his attentions back to whatever it was he was searching for, ploughing a path through the papers to the file cabinet and starting to fling them into random piles.

Eve was watching this with a wide-eyed amusement, and I hastened to inform her that nice children did _not_ throw things – I wanted no such mimicry and I had the feeling Mycroft would die a thousand deaths if the girl started tossing _his_ files everywhere.

"Did you eat breakfast today, Eve?"

She shook her head, brows furrowing.

"Well you need to. Come, I'll eat with you, all right?"

I was rewarded with a nod, relieved that I needed to employ no further coaxing, and I set her down at the table on top of three of Holmes's scrapbooks that he had just thrown over the desk, scattering a flurry of paper everywhere.

I fixed the girl a soft-boiled egg and made sure she was eating before starting on my own. Then I ducked as a file came flying past my ear, coming dangerously close to knocking over the coffee-pot.

"Holmes, what in the world are you searching for?"

"Something on that man Truman that Hyde mentioned last night," Holmes said, digging through one of his commonplace books.

"It would help if we had a first name," I agreed, eyeing the pile of papers he had buried my desk under.

I turned to Eve, who was munching on a scone with more eagerness than she had yet shown – obviously the knowledge that Hyde was no longer loose had taken a weight off her little mind, a weight that no one so young should have had to bear.

"Eve, do you know a man named Truman?" I asked.

The girl's dark eyes grew thoughtful, but then she shook her head.

Holmes growled something unintelligible and flung the book to slam against the wall. "I have to have _something_ on the man!"

"Your book of T's?"

"Only two in there, one is a clergyman, now deceased, and one is an ambassador with absolutely no criminal tendencies," he replied, rubbing at his head, brow wrinkling.

Eve finished her scone and sipped the rest of her milk, sliding off the tall chair to the floor, gazing with astonishment at the white paper carpet that blanketed the floor. I picked up the books she had been sitting on, idly flipping through the pages.

This one appeared to be Holmes's collection of money-related crimes; extortion, blackmail, bank robbery, illegal betting…

"Holmes!"

He jumped in statement, dropping a shower of papers. Eve tittered and he glared at her before turning to me.

"What is it?"

I handed him the book, pointing to an entry. "Could that be the man?"

My friend eagerly scanned the page of print, detailing a Truman who had been convicted for illegal loans some years ago, a business that was quickly seeming to be the modus operandi of Sinclair's underlings. When caught and his files gone through with a fine-toothed comb, it had been noted that about one quarter of his clients had disappeared sometime after their loan payments had gone unpaid. No bodies had ever turned up, however, so no case could be made. He had been sentenced to six years, and from the date in the article would now be out of prison.

"That's it, Watson! Illegal loans – exactly what this Gage's business was with that man Lutes!" Holmes cried in excitement, slamming the book shut and tossing it carelessly over his shoulder in glee.

Eve winced as the volume slammed into the window, thankfully not breaking it, and I sighed tolerantly and picked it up, re-opening to the page. There was a small photograph of the man that Holmes had stuck to the page beside the article, and on a whim I got down and showed it to the girl.

"Have you ever seen this man Truman before, Eve?" I asked, holding the book out to her.

She came close, a little nervously, and peered at the picture. Then I dropped the book as she backed away, clutching that rabbit close to her and looking more frightened than she had been yesterday upon learning that Hyde had escaped.

"She knows, Watson!"

"Be quiet, Holmes!" I hissed, gently lifting the trembling child and setting her on my lap on the couch.

For once, my friend listened to me and promptly silenced, watching.

"Now, Eve, the man is not going to hurt you," I began soothingly, "you remember how scared you were yesterday, when Hyde got loose?"

She nodded, burying her face in my shoulder.

"Well, you know that Mr. Holmes caught the man last night, so he is back in jail. And nothing happened, remember?"

I felt a small nod.

"You can trust Mr. Holmes, and me, and Mycroft – this man won't get anywhere near you, I promise," I said, pulling her back from me to look into her frightened eyes, so old for one so young.

One little eyebrow cocked in a question, and she glanced at Holmes, who smiled rather uncharacteristically for him and nodded reassuringly.

This appeared to satisfy the girl, for she relaxed slightly against me. I glanced at Holmes and pulled out my notebook, handing it and my ever-present pencil to her.

"Now, Eve. Can you show me who this man is?" I asked, making my voice calm and quiet.

She hesitantly took the pencil and, after glancing fearfully up at me for reassurance, began to furiously scribble on the page. Holmes crept noiselessly round behind us and looked over my shoulder as the picture took shape.

Finally the lead ran dull and the little one put the pencil down, wrapping her one good hand round my jacket front, her eyes still haunted. Holmes glanced closer, and then we both looked at each other.

"He was that second gunman who killed Mason," I said quietly, gently comforting the frightened child that was clinging to me at the remembrance, pushing the paper with the crude drawing of the bloody crime away.


	19. My Teachers

_"If I am walking with two other men, each of them I will serve as my teacher. I will pick out the good points of the one and imitate them, and the bad points of the other and correct them in myself." - Confucius_

**Eve**

I held back a cringe when Sherlock clomped down the stairs, shouting that the lady (Mrs. Hudson, I was sure, but perhaps I was not right?) to call a cab for the three of us.

I did not mean to tremble like a leaf. I did not mean to almost (but not entirely) cry. I was doing both things, however, and yet Watson took me into his arms all the same. Mycroft had done the same thing the night before. Master would have tossed me across the room like a rag doll if I had wanted comfort in his arms. I was coming to the slow answer that these three men were not about to leave me alone when they had no more use for me. These men were... _Good_. The word Good had been applied to so few things in my life.

So if they were so Good, why did they have to go after these Bad men? Although neither they nor Mycroft had mentioned it, I knew Sherlock had been hurt catching Hyde. Where else could that bandage have come from? I did not want to live in fear of him, but I did not want them to be hurt for me...

Perhaps Watson saw my thoughts as I watched the gauze-covered back of the detective's head, for he gave my hand a small squeeze. "He takes risks every day, Eve. He is used to them. We all want to put Jackyl behind bars so he can never hurt anyone again. This is not your fault in the least bit."

I was not so sure, but I was willing to believe him. Watson had not given me any reason to mistrust him yet, and I doubted he would. I was content in his grasp as he carried me to the cab and joined Sherlock.

It surprised me how quickly things went from pretty to ugly in London. I had not seen much scenery despite all the traveling. Master had kept me shut up in my coffin when we traveled. I wondered if things changed so quickly in all places...

"Here we are, Hampton Street," Sherlock announced, opening the door for Watson. His eyes scanned the street, and he spotted a sign with no words but something else that even I could understand; a pound sign.

It was not a pretty place. The house of Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock and Watson was so much like a home, and Mycroft's building, which he had explained was the home of many strangers as well, was like a castle. This building, however, was squat and ugly.

I was more used to buildings like that than to homes and castles, but I still did not like it.

I tugged on Watson's coat so that he would put me down, not wanting to rely on his strength forever. The building was not familiar and so I had no Memories of it to scare me.

Mycroft had explained to me that not all Memories were bad, but most of mine were.

Sherlock tried the door first, rattling the knob about before growling. "Locked. At this time a day, a closed business usually means that its owner does not wish to deal with something." He pressed his ear to the door. "I hear no motion."

"Can you pick the lock?" Watson questioned, keeping a tight hold on my hand and looking around us for anyone who would see us.

The detective took a thin piece of metal from his pocket, slipping it into the gap. "I can try." Within several minutes, however, he was getting madder with every moment he failed to hear the click. He was not the first lock pick I had observed at work, and I knew what should have happened. "Too many tumblers. I could do it with time, but we'll be spotted if we stay here too long. Let's go around back and see what they have for windows."

Watson and I followed his quick steps into the alley against the building. Despite the dimness, I could see the disappointment on Sherlock's face when he spotted the window. It was too high up, and too small for him to fit through even if he could get to it.

"I hope you have a third plan," the doctor commented, arching an eyebrow.

"I do not need one, Watson," replied the tall man, his gaze falling onto me. I did not understand why for a moment, and when I did I clutched Bunny, shaking my head quickly.

"What... Holmes! That is not even an option!" He looked rather mad at his friend. "She has a bad wrist as it is!"

"Watson, my dear man, please calm yourself. I merely want to boost her up to see if she sees anything in the office that is of importance. And if there is something she can get down on, well..."

"Holmes...!"

I barely heard either of them. My mind was already through that window. Sherlock had been hurt capturing Hyde so that I would be safe. All he was asking was for me to crawl into the darkness, only if it was safe, to help catch the man who had done me the most harm. I was used to the dark, and my arm was well enough for crawling (I had had so many injuries worse than that that had not been treated with such care).

The two men still arguing, I gave a small tug on Sherlock's jacket.

"And besides, Mycroft would kill me if... Yes, what is it?"

Still holding onto Bunny tightly, I pointed towards the window.

Sherlock smiled but Watson's face went almost white. "Eve, no! You don't have to go in there. Mr. Holmes sometimes goes too far on cases, and..."

I held my gaze firmly and pointed to the window again. I was not about to back down, not when I finally had the chance to be of real use to them.

"It seems like she has made her decision, Watson. Good, brave girl!" Sherlock praised. After I had handed Bunny to Watson to hold, he took me by the waist and lifted me up to the window.

I grinned when I saw a filing cabinet just under the window and I crawled through and into the darkness. When I scrambled down I went to let them into the building, but I tripped over something that sent me falling.

I felt new pain as my bad arm hit the floor, but it was not too bad. I wrinkled my nose a bit when I saw what I had tripped over but made no other reaction as I went to unlock the door.

****

Watson

It was less than a minute that Eve was out of my sight, but it felt like nearly an hour. I was worried that there was someone in the building, that perhaps Jackyl himself was lying in wait, but within forty-five seconds the front door of the office popped open to reveal Eve, not worse for wear although she was tugging on Holmes's sleeve for him to come forward.

"What is it?" my friend questioned, smiling slightly at her antics despite myself. "What on earth is so important?" His smile and his question both disappeared when we came into the office.

There was the body of a woman lying face down, drying blood coagulating in two bullet wounds in her chest, her blonde hair splayed like straw.

Eve, the discoverer of this crime, was staring at the corpse as calmly as if she were studying her primer.

__

Dear god,

I found myself thinking. _What all has this child seen to be so even when viewing the dead body of a stranger stumbled upon in the dark? _I had a feeling that I did not want to know the answer.

"A secretary," Holmes spoke, his face just as stony as the girl's. "Her fingers are calloused from typing, the same reason her nail polish is chipped at the end. The bright colour of the polish means she is no lady, therefore likely a working woman." He looked over to see Eve looking amazed at this deduction. "Oh, it's really not so hard. Do you wish to see?" He took his magnifying glass from his coat, crouching down next to the body and holding up one limp hand for her to examine through the lens.

"Holmes, don't do that!" I abolished, deplored that he was displaying the death so blandly to a mere child. "She's much too young to be scrutinizing a corpse!"

"She seems to be quite interested in it," he counted, nodding towards the girl's sparking eyes as she identified the calluses and the chips. "One is never too young to begin learning good, solid logic."

"Teach her to observe living people, then, not dead ones!"

"It is easier to observe the dead; they move about far less." With this, the discussion was done. I made a mental note to have a little talk with Eve about this later, however. " My theory is that Truman abandoned this place, likely to move on somewhere else with a new name. His secretary must have known too much; another causality in Sinclair's wake."

I sighed, picking up a protesting Eve from where she was examining the body. "Nice children do not involve themselves with murders, Eve. Stay away from the body, would you?"

She scowled furiously at me, but even this faded when I put her rabbit in her arms. Children may have had great energy for the things that captured their attention, but they also had notoriously short attention spans.

Holmes had moved on to rifling through the filing cabinets, not tossing things about as he did in his own home, likely because he knew Scotland Yard might hold him responsible for ruining the crime scene. "There must be something here hinting his whereabouts, Watson. Who would have thought that a loan office would have so many papers on people's finances?"

I sighed as I set Eve down on top to the desk, beginning to go through its drawers. "Truman must be doing something correct to not have been caught after his release; he may have cleared out all clues before he left." I paused when I came across an envelope with familiar handwriting on it. "Or perhaps he was a bit careless in his haste..."

The letter was immediately taken from my hands, and the three of us crowded around it.

"Truman, I am staying in hiding until the search dies down," Holmes read, his brow furrowing deeply at the poor spelling and writing. "I still have my part, but I cannot find Mason's. Keep searching London. The girl knows nothing, but dispose of her if you want to. I will have to find a new act, and with her I am a marked man after Sinclair had her branded. Jackyl."

I glanced over to see if Eve had reacted to the name, but she had slipped down off of the desk, Holmes's magnifying lens in hand, and was poking about the file cabinets. I sighed, hoping this particular mimicry was temporary. The word did not need another Sherlock Holmes at present.

Holmes, for all his crime-solving skills, did not even notice the theft of the glass. "See this powder, Watson?"

Turning my attention back to the letter, I inhaled just as my friend shoved a powder-laden finger under my nose, filling it with chalky fragrance. I wiped furiously with my sleeve, coughing and spluttering. "For God's sake, man! That might have been dangerous!"

"Oh, no, doctor. Simple theatre makeup. This is a cheap brand, thick you see, and in a dressing room or anywhere near a dressing room under shoddy management, it will cake like dust. The stationary is a bit feminine as well, but the writing is most decidedly masculine and Jackyl's to be sure, meaning he's stolen some starving actress's paper. Jackyl is not proving himself to be very intelligent, but we knew that from the beginning, didn't we?"

"Can you track it?" My words were muted by a hissing sound at my elbow. Wondering what it could be, I looked down and saw Eve making the most noise I had heard her make yet; pushing air between her teeth to make the hissing. "Yes, very nice."

Her look became more urgent, and she continued hissing and tugging, pointing towards the body.

"I told you to stay away from that!"

Holmes glared lightly striding over. "You mustn't interfere with evidence!" He paused, frowning slightly as he saw the neck exposed when Eve had moved the woman's hair. "What on earth... It almost looks like it's been gnawed on, but it's not rats..."

The hissing persisted as she pointed to the one cabinet Holmes had not gotten to. Apparently she had beaten him to it. I peered inside, seeing an empty terrarium lined with a shallow dish of greening water and various branches. There was also a pair of very thick gloves. "Holmes..."

A gunshot was my reply, and I spun on my heel in time to see the headless body of a brightly-coloured, poisonous-looking snake flop onto the floor, giving a few last twitches before being still.

"I believe, Watson," Holmes said calmly as he slipped his seldom-used pistol back into his coat. "That Mr. Truman was a snake enthusiast. He liked to keep his current pet close by, but knew his clients would not be so welcoming, so he covered up every trace of it. The cabinet is by the heater, see? The perfect reptilian environment."

Eve looked rather stunned at the gunfire, actual violence affecting her more than any still corpse could. When I lifted her into my arms however, she gave me a rather judging look through her fear, along with another hiss.

Holmes was still snickering at my expression when we flagged down another carriage. Before we left, he had lifted the body of the snake and deposited it into a bag, saying he planned to see where that breed of snake was sold, possibly leading to information on Truman. "Honestly, Watson, it was a body. You'd think I exposed her to something immoral."

It took every ounce of me not to reply with great amount of anger, and so I merely remained silent. The girl seemed perfectly fine, all things considered. The bullet had not been coming near her, after all, and perhaps Mason was not the first body she had seen.

"We'll just leave a note at Scotland Yard; I have the feeling that Lestrade doesn't want to deal with us today. After that we'll visit some cosmetic boutiques; I can't put a certain brand on this powder from memory." He paused, and I could see clearly what he was thinking from years of having to do just that. A small, curious child in a store selling many expensive, breakable things was not usually a prime combination.

"I'll do my best to keep her hands still, Holmes," I offered, but at a loss for how I was supposed to take notes that way. And knowing Holmes and his comparisons, there was bound to be many of them.

"No need, my dear Watson. Fate gave me an older brother for a reason. Surely he has someone on his payroll who can tend to her for a few hours while we continue the hunt."

We were in and out of Scotland Yard within thirty seconds, leaving three scrambling inspectors and one very confused secretary in our wake (but she was the luckier of the two secretaries we had met so far that day). Whitehall was within walking distance of the Yard, and Eve was bursting with energy, and so I thought it best to let her enjoy the day. That, and it was a great comfort to see her so carefree after the state of panic she had been in the night before.

Her questions were still unrelenting, as if she were trying to make up for the five years spent isolated from normal society in a matter of days. At her rate, she was looking as if she would succeed. One item, or items rather, caught her eye for more than a few seconds.

The girl paused, making me (with a tight grip on her hand) stop short. She looked on wide-eyed for a moment before pointing up at the posters, and then at their relatives running down the side of the upscale theatre. The high-quality drawings of the graceful forms of the dancers seemed to enthral her.

"They're ballet dancers," I chuckled, ignoring the glares we were getting from both passers-by and Holmes for disrupting the traffic of the sidewalk. "Ballet is... I suppose it's sort of a story. Told through dance and the music played by people in the orchestra. It's a classical style of dance."

"Watson, could you possibly explain and walk at the same time? I have several boutiques I wish to visit before they close!"

I sighed, pulling the girl along, she in turn carrying her rabbit like a tagalong passenger. I knew Holmes was eager to be let loose on the trail of the criminal, but could he not spare a few seconds? All the same, however, his impatience was far better than his apathy in the holds of his drug, which was the alternate to being on a case.

Mycroft did not look at all amused when we rapped on his office door and entered. He was surrounded by paperwork and it seemed as if he was making quick work out of it, but the intimidating stacks spoke the fact that he was in no position to take the girl.

And if any of us had not deduced this, he made it rather clear vocally. "Do you have any idea how much work this is generating for me, Sherlock? People are starting to point the finger at Gladstone, and he's acting as if I went out and shot Mason myself!"

"And I am trying to go about this case, but having a five-year-old poking about things is not making it easy! Just give her some of her crayons and let her scribble, she can amuse herself when there's nothing shiny about to distract her."

The huge man relented. "Alright...! I have a new primer here, that should keep her moderately occupied." He raised an eyebrow as the girl gave a small spin, imitating the women she had seen on the side of the theatre. "... Do I want to ask, Doctor?"

"Oh, she saw some posters for a ballet. You know how she parrots things." It was best not to mention her Sherlock Holmes impression.

"Mr. Holmes..." Trevor spoke as he entered, balancing an armful of books. "Here are the texts you required." With an exhale of exhaustion (the books looked as if they weighed as much as the slight secretary did), he turned his sight to Eve, smiling. "Do we have a little ballerina? I take it she saw the advertisements for the opening of 'Don Quixote'? They're plastering the city." With one of his loose smiles, he patted the girl's head, his comfort with children evident. "I bet you'd like to go to it tomorrow night, hmm?"

"Mr. Trevor, seats have been sold out for months," Mycroft said quickly, expression stating that he had no wish to go to the ballet with a little girl. Or with anyone else. "And it is tomorrow."

"Oh, but sir, Whitehall always reserves a box for the higher-ups, and it's empty tomorrow night. Mr. Paul usually takes it but he is on holiday. I could easily get it for the four of you."

"You're busy, Trevor. I wouldn't want to cause you any trouble."

The man beamed, not even seeing the hint let alone taking it. "No trouble at all, sir!"

His face read plainly that his secretary should drop the subject. "It is a very formal event, Trevor."

"I am sure Miss Eve would behave, wouldn't you?" He smiled at the enthusiastic nodding. "See? Perhaps we could get you a formal dress, and I could braid your hair... My nieces make me do it for them all the time..."

Mycroft's glare might have killed any other man, but Trevor seemed entirely oblivious to anything but the girl's smile.


	20. External Distress

__

If you are distressed by anything external, the pain is not due to the thing itself, but to your estimate of it; and this you have the power to revoke at any moment. - Marcus Aurelius

****

Watson

"Yes, isn't it beautiful, Eve? A story without words."

"Watson, stop that infernal whispering! People are staring!"

My friend's voice hissed in my ear as we sat in Whitehall's private box, watching the ballet presentation of _Don Quixote_.

I was holding Eve upon my lap because she had difficulty seeing clearly over the railing of the box, and she kept pointing at the different dancers and tugging on my coat, bouncing with excitement. Holmes evidently was annoyed with my explanations to the girl, for he was very much exaggerating. No one was even glancing in our direction and I doubted that anyone could even hear us from our box.

Eve sent him a tiny glare before turning her attention back to the performance. I stole a look at Mycroft, who either was asleep or close to it, and felt a brief pang of sympathy for Trevor - if I had to guess, that young man was going to have rather a bit of a bad time in the office tomorrow!

The secretary had picked out a lovely lavender dress for Eve and had indeed fixed her hair as he promised - when Holmes and I had appeared in Pall Mall to meet them I was astonished at how pretty the child truly was, especially now that she was beginning to eat properly.

I had stifled a laugh at the sight of Mycroft Holmes in full evening dress standing behind the girl and holding Bunny, growling about his secretary, showing us the ribbon the young man had tied round the ever-present animal's neck.

In fact, both Holmeses had been in rather a bad mood; Mycroft because of Trevor's forcing him into going to the ballet and Holmes because the clue of the theatre makeup had petered out into nothingness. The brand was a common, very cheap one that could be found in any number of theatres; tracing it would be impossible.

In consequence, I had hastily started up a conversation (albeit rather one-sided) with Eve in the cab as younger brother vented his irritation on the elder, using some rather colourful language that, while I was sure the poor girl had heard it before, I did not want her trying to reproduce in crayon all over Mycroft's ledgers.

Eve now tugged on my stiff black jacket and pointed, her dark eyes sparkling as one of the dancers on the stage started into a complicated series of pirouettes. I smiled at the child's obvious wide-eyed enjoyment and blessed that young secretary for suggesting it despite his employer's dismay.

Holmes was slouching in his seat, running a finger under his stiff collar and bow tie, looking indifferently about him at the other occupants of the nearby boxes. I winced, hoping he would stop staring before they grew aware of the fact, and thanked heaven that the performance was nearly over.

A quarter of an hour later, the curtains closed for the final time and the lights in the theatre slowly went back on. Eve was bouncing on my knee with excitement, and she hopped off when the lights went on, spinning around with her arms in the air, again mimicking the dancers.

I clapped for the girl, and she tried to bow as the performers had done, tripped on the hem of her new long dress, and fell solidly against Mycroft's knees, waking the portly man from his doze.

"Yes, it's safe to come back to reality now, brother mine," Holmes drawled, his thin lips twitching in amusement as Eve began to demonstrated for her largest protector her most recent impersonation.

"Um, yes, Eve, very nice," the man said absently, patting the girl's head.

She scowled at him and came back to me, obviously liking my enthusiasm much better. I laughed as we stood to leave, taking hold of the girl's good hand and following the two Holmes brothers out of the private box.

I had to admit to being rather excited myself about the performance tonight - not everyone in England got to sit in Whitehall's seats for a ballet and it was a rare treat for me. Holmes could not care less about where we ever sat in theatres so long as he could see the stage; he never thought about the fact that he was a bit taller than I and so usually could peer over people's heads. In consequence I sometimes only watched the top half of the stage over some gentleman's head when we would attend performances; a private box so close to the stage was a rare pleasure.

Eve tugged me ahead of Holmes and Mycroft, wanting to look again at the posters in the lobby, and I held her up to see the largest one while waiting for the other two to catch up. The lobby was fast emptying; we had waited long enough to let most of the crowd leave; for at least the younger Holmes occasionally attracted the odd enthusiast wanting to greet the celebrity out on the town.

Eve was clutching Bunny happily, pointing at different women in glittering gowns sweeping past us on the arms of men dressed to the hilt in formal wear. I finally saw Mycroft barging his way through the dispersing crowd, younger brother following calmly in his large wake. I joined him, Eve looking longingly over my shoulder at the posters as we exited the theatre.

"Did you enjoy the ballet, Eve?" Holmes asked, glancing at us.

Eve sent him a tiny smile and waved her be-ribboned rabbit in his direction. Holmes's thin lips twitched in a half-grin, and he was about to speak when the girl's happy eyes suddenly darkened with fear and she grabbed hold of me, clinging tightly with her good arm, hiding her face in my jacket.

"What's the matter?" Holmes demanded, glancing worriedly at me and yanking on his brother's immense coat to stop him in his progress through the crowd.

"What is it, Eve?" I asked, trying in vain to pry the girl off of my shoulder.

My inquiry was answered by a thin, reedy voice that rang suddenly behind us and I turned as I saw Holmes's sharp gaze fix immediately on the speaker.

"Mr. Holmes."

The owner of the voice was an older man, with dark hair beginning to grey at the temples. I had to look down at him, for he was seated in a wheelchair, attended by a capable-looking gentleman's gentleman. Both were in formal evening wear and had apparently been attending the same performance as we.

He met Holmes's gaze readily with his own, an amiable and friendly smile on his face. But at the sound of his voice, Eve's desperate grip tightened, and I returned the grip protectively, sensing something of the fear she evidently still felt in the man's apparently kind manner. Something was not right.

Holmes did not fail to notice Eve's reaction and he set his face in one of his coldest masks as he turned to his addressor. The gentleman did not seem put-out in the least by Holmes's chill gaze and the smile remained firmly in place as he spoke again.

"I take it I am addressing Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

"You are," my friend responded coldly.

"I am glad of the coincidence that led us to meet here. My name is Michael Sinclair."

I could see the surprise that passed through Holmes like a physical shock, though no very visible emotions broke through his enigmatic mask. He said nothing, inviting Sinclair to continue, which he did without any notice of my friend's cold attitude.

"I understand that you are investigating a case involving some of my old...associates."

Holmes' brows flew towards his hairline. Mycroft cleared his throat behind him, his attention now arrested as well by this crippled villain. I hid an amused smirk, for the penetrating stare of one of the Holmeses was enough to make a man cringe; but both simultaneously were not a pleasant sensation, as I knew well from more than one embarrassing experience.

"And why do you approach me now?" Holmes asked abruptly, his thin temper fraying.

"Well, when I saw you across the lobby I thought it an opportunity to assure you of my support and approval of this venture."

"And to reassure yourself that I had not and would not connect you with the affair," Holmes added dryly.

Sinclair sat back in his wheelchair, looking the picture of an polite and mannerly gentleman.

"I assure you, Mr. Holmes, that I am a changed man. I never think about such practices anymore, let alone take the least degree of participation of them."

"Indeed?" my friend said, though his tone suggested he thought otherwise. "You have found other ways of occupying your time that do not involve dogs or children?"

Sinclair drew himself up a little. "I took a fall several years back, Mr. Holmes, a riding accident, and I came severely close to losing my very life. But I have been given a second chance, and the loss of my legs has humbled me and made me reconsider my life - and the damage that I have caused to others."

His eyes shifted to Eve, who had ventured to peek out from my arms and at his gaze her eyes clenched shut in fear and she buried her head against my coat a second time, shivering, as though afraid she would be taken from my very arms.

A shiver of disgust and loathing ran through me and I tightened my hold around the child protectively. Had she not been present the others would have been hard pressed to keep me from telling Sinclair exactly what I thought of him and his 'reformation'. Everything about the man rang false in his odious piety, and I could tell from Holmes's stiff posture that he had of course realised the fact as well.

Sinclair fixed his gaze on Holmes once again.

"I do not participate in such petty crimes any longer."

"What do you do then?"

The crippled man favoured us with another of those patently false smiles and gestured vaguely towards the stately building we had just left.

"I have always had an interest in the theatre, Mr. Holmes. I now own one, the Orpheum."

"I have heard of it. You do seem changed, Mr. Sinclair," my friend replied with frigid politeness.

Mycroft shot me a glance with raised eyebrows, and I rolled my eyes - Holmes was not believing this ridiculous farce, he had some game to play as usual.

"If I can be of any help in this endeavour you will let me know? It is the least I could do to correct my past grievances."

"Yes," Holmes said blandly, "Thank you for your assurances, Mr. Sinclair. Good night."

Holmes turned and led the way from the theatre, pulling Mycroft with him (or attempting to, as I doubted he could move the elder if he did not wish to be moved), and I followed, still holding the terrified Eve and doing my utmost to calm her with quiet words.

We reached the street and Holmes rather gracelessly chased down a four-wheeler.

Once the four of us were safely stowed inside, Mycroft was the first to turn to him since I had my hands full of a frightened child and stuffed rabbit.

"Sherlock?"

"No, brother mine, I was not taken in by his pathetic performance." He cast an uncharacteristically gentle gaze on the child in my arms and I saw a flash of icy anger in his eyes. "Her reaction alone is enough to assure me of his true character. I do not believe he has reformed in the least, but it was necessary to make him believe we swallowed such a patently false tale. He gave us a quite useful lead."

I rubbed Eve's back and spoke to her softly, trying to ease her grip. When she finally did let go she cast a frightened eye about the cab, clutching her bunny tightly. She relaxed slightly as Holmes and Mycroft smiled and then she settled back against me. Her shivering had not ceased, however - part of it caused by the cold front that still was sweeping London but a good part because of that supposedly 'reformed' villain's attentions and memories we knew little of yet.

"What lead?" I asked at last, having paid little attention to the actual contents of Sinclair's conversation.

"I rather believe, Watson, that we shall be visiting another theatre in the near future as we did tonight."

"And if the Orpheum is featuring a ballet, you shall be going _alone_, brother," Mycroft growled irritably.

Eve tittered wordlessly for the first time since her scare, glancing up at me with a tiny grin.

"Yes, my dear, both Holmeses can be rather out-of-sorts when the fit so strikes them," I said, hastily ducking two very annoyed sets of grey eyes as we settled back for the chilly ride through London.


	21. Giving Hearts

__

"Once a woman has given you her heart, you can never get rid of the rest of her." - Sir John Vanbrugh

****

Watson

By the time we reached Pall Mall, Eve's shivering had ceased. This was largely in part thanks to the fact that she was bundled quite thoroughly in Mycroft's jacket. I had offered to remove mine, but the elder Holmes had pointed out that his provided much more fabric. I could hardly argue this, and was merely glad for the girl's comfort as she settled beneath the folds of the material.

We all disembarked at Mycroft's apartment, meaning to discuss the case. Eve, however, refused to be put to bed yet, and seeing the fear in her eyes from the evening's encounter, even Mycroft's iron will bent.

"Go get your nightdress on," he sighed, giving her head a gentle pat. "And then you can come back out. But not for too long, mind."

She nodded with the barest trace of a smile, clutching her rabbit and heading off to her room, the lace of her dress flouncing after her.

"She'll likely just fall asleep soon, whether at the table or in her bed," noted Holmes.

"I know," his brother smiled, heading for the kitchen. "I'll do my best to make some tea; it's usually consumable."

Holmes followed him, forcing me along as well. "Have you found any traces as to who her real family is?"

He shook his head, regretful, as he poured the water into the pot. "Not even a false alarm. I had one of the Whitehall police artists do a sketch yesterday while she was at the office to send out. Nothing so far. It went to France, Germany, Switzerland, Scotland… And they're searching birth certificates now, not missing children notices. I may have it mailed to America and Canada. At this point, however, there are two likely theories."

I frowned slightly. "And those are?"

"The first that she was a street child to begin with, not registered and not missed. The second…" Here he sighed heavily, watery eyes closed briefly. "The second is that it was her parents themselves who sold her into slavery and then had traces of her existence destroyed."

I was stunned. I could not comprehend any parent ever treating their child like livestock, selling them like a commodity into such an environment. "If that is the case… Will she go back to such a family?"

"Absolutely not, doctor. Whitehall actually owns several orphanages primarily for the housing of young witnesses and victims of crimes. They are much better run than the child mills; even if she is not adopted, she will be educated."

"Good. Excellent." I knew such a place would be best for Eve, and better yet would be a complete family, but I could not help but feel a pang of pain when I thought of becoming separated from her. I had grown quite fond of the girl. Still, I knew what she needed, and it was not being shot at and hunted down by her old tormentors.

"At least we know she will be safe," spoke up Holmes, voice lacking much emotion. "If Whitehall is in charge of a structure, I admit I must put some faith in it."

Mycroft was about to speak when padding footsteps made us cease all talk about the future of the girl who was approaching us.

The detective chuckled, and to my surprise lifted the girl up onto one of the chairs at the table that perpetually held a book on its seat now. "Save for the unfortunate meeting at the end, did you enjoy the ballet?"

Smiling genuinely, Eve nodded before looking towards the now boiling pot.

"I suppose you can have a cup. But a weak cup," Mycroft replied to the unanswered question. He had not even turned his head; I did not know how on earth he had known she was glancing his way. "And no sugar; you need sleep tonight."

She tittered before seeing my curious expression. She grabbed a stray crayon on the table and a piece of paper at random, sketching out a quick teapot. This hardly clarified things.

"She means," the elder man explained with a smirk as he brought the tray and four cups over, preparing the girl's first. "That I saw her in the reflection of the silver pot. Sharp eye, Eve."

Holmes chuckled as he slid a cup of milk-diluted tea filled halfway towards her. "Be careful with the china. Little angers my brother more than having to clean up broken glass, as it involves actually having to reach the floor."

I did not believe it to be an accident when Mycroft poured Holmes's tea and a bit of the scalding liquid splashed his hand, extracting a loud yelp and silent giggling from the girl.

As my dear friend had predicted, it was not long before Eve was slumbering, head resting on her Bunny. Mycroft took it upon himself to put her to bed, and when he returned we were finally able to discuss the case without risk of upsetting her.

"Should we really expect Jackyl to be at the Orpheum?" I questioned with a slight frown. "We do not even know if he still has contact with Sinclair."

"I believe it is our best bet," replied the detective, curt and defensive of his theory. "Think, Watson. The fact that there was theatre makeup on the letter when it was put in the envelope suggests it was written not long after the stationary was stolen, meaning he likely wrote it inside the theatre, _implying_ he spent time there in which he was not working. Perhaps he even lived there. I know of no legitimate theatre that hires a full-time caretaker off the streets with no credible references and trusts them with the entire building their first week of work."

"I cannot say that Jackyl will be at the Orpheum for certain," put in Mycroft, sipping at his second cup of tea (which hardly stood up against Mrs. Hudson's, but was not entirely bad). "But I do agree that it should at least be investigated. At this time, it is the strongest lead we have. The election draws closer, and fingers are beginning to be pointed at Bradford. Jackyl needs to be caught, and even if he is not there, there may be some clues there indicating as to his whereabouts."

"It is settled, then. Tomorrow we will go to the Orpheum. It is less than an hour away by hansom; it should not take all day if he is not there." Holmes's expression implied, however, that he fully expected to find the villain there and that the case would be entirely over by the day after tomorrow. "We should likely fetch the girl an hour early, so we…"

"Wait," his brother interrupted, wide face furrowing into a deep, intimidating scowl. "You plan on taking Eve?"

"Well, of course, brother. Neither I nor Watson have actually seen Jackyl. All we have to identify him is a rough sketch, as none of those enabling nomads were much help. Besides, her eyes will see through any disguise he has in an instant; children have such a wonderful way of reading ill intentions."

"And you plan to expose her to the man who tormented her for so long?" I questioned, rising to my feet. "And do you think that blackguard will go without a struggle? You cannot put her in that kind of danger!"

"Watson, we have little choice." When I looked towards him, I saw actual regret in his eyes. "We need to collar Jackyl as soon as we can. To let him slip away might mean we never find him again. She could spot him from a mile away; she did with Sinclair, and she did not even know him as well as her former master."

There was a heavy, sickening silence in the room until the corpulent man broke it.

"If you are to take her, then I shall have to accompany you."

This shocked even his brother. "What…? Mycroft, are you joking?"

"I know it is uncharacteristic to want anything to do with such a situation, but while I cannot argue your reasons for wanting Eve's presence, I also cannot accept that the two of you, while amidst a pursuit, could look out of her safety. Therefore I will come solely to keep her unharmed and leave the footwork to the pair of you."

Holmes chuckled, letting his chin rest on his clasped hands, elbows propped on the tabletop. "And since when have you been so maternal, brother?"

His fleshy face turned a light red hue. "It is not maternal to care for a child's safety, Sherlock, merely humanity. If you simply must know, I suppose I have a bit of a soft spot for the creature because she reminds me so much of you at that age."

He gave a somewhat affronted look. "Of _me_? You must be joking!"

"The level of activity, her curiosity, her desire to involve herself, those _glares_…" He counted each point off on his fingers. "When those eyes of hers look to me for an answer, I sometimes expect them to be grey rather than brown."

I could not retain a chuckle, although I hoped that Eve would grow up to be a great deal more normal than my friend. Society barely tolerated him, let alone a woman of that personality.

After the tea pot had been emptied we headed back to Baker Street. I had hoped Holmes would get a good night's sleep in preparation for the attempt at arrest tomorrow, but instead he buried himself in his scrapbooks once again, looking for anything he might have connected the Orpheum theatre with.

"Holmes, you need rest," I said softly, stifling a yawn as I did so. "We both do."

"You do, my friend, but I must apply myself before the event," he murmured, holding a seemingly random paper up to the light. "This rat will be trapped soon or the earth may swallow me whole. He must be held accountable for his heinous deeds."

I was quiet and began to head to my quarters. I then paused, however, and turned to face him once more. "You've put not only your heart into this case, Holmes. You've put your soul into it."

He actually looked up; I had managed to catch his attention. "That's one way of putting it, I suppose."

"Why? Why this case?"

A grin flickered across that sharp visage I had come to know so well. "Because it is so important to you, my dearest Watson. Because you want nothing more than to see Jackyl either behind bars or swinging from the rope." He gave a content sigh, returning to his papers. "And I suppose because Mycroft, as usual, was right. Eve reminds me a bit of myself, and any spark of aptitude like mine must be nurtured in a healthy environment."

I smiled, shaking my head. "Hopefully she has your modesty as well. Good night, Holmes."

"Watson," my friend spoke again, gaze still on the papers but sincerity in his voice. "Old man, are you truly comfortable with the girl being sent to an orphanage when this mess has been straightened out? You were rather stiff about it."

My heart plummeted, but I continued my smile to keep it from my face. Of course I harboured a fondness for the child when she had been taking refuge in my arms for the past while. Of course I was not entirely happy to see her go. At the same time, however. I was not a naïve fool.

"She needs a home, a mother and a father," I finally replied. I did not sound as sure as I hoped I would. "She doesn't need to be shot at, to be exposed to your chemicals. And I'm sure Mycroft will be happy to be left alone once again." I knew that a strong family was what she needed for a normal life. A house in the country, perhaps with a few ducks for her to chase and siblings to protect her when I had moved on to the next case…

"You are right, I suppose." Holmes's voice was airy now; he was back in his world of clippings and criminals. "Get some sleep, my friend. Tomorrow will likely be quite interesting."

I had lived with Holmes long enough to know what he considered interesting, and therefore I slept as best I could.


	22. The Words of Our Enemies

__

"We will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends." - Martin Luther King, Jr.

****

Mycroft

When Sherlock and Dr. Watson showed up at my apartment at eight-thirty the next morning, Eve did not seem to be affected by the late night. While I felt a bit of a tug of weariness, she was as energetic as ever.

I made a mental note to cancel the truly horrible project I had planned to give to Trevor; no matter how annoying her twirling was becoming, she looked genuinely happy. Added to this was the fact that Watson had deemed her wrist strong enough to be let loose of the sling, and she was taking advantage of her newfound mobility.

"It's excellent that she is acting like a child her age should," the doctor commented to me as he watched her struggle into her coat. "She's looking much better. Her hair's loosing its brittleness, one of the first signs of recovery from malnutrition."

"Glad to hear it," I grunted, more thankful than I expressed that she would soon be healthy again. Perhaps even for the first time in her life. As soon as she was free of the three of us (truly only Sherlock and I; the doctor was quite well-adjusted, all things considered) she could have a normal life.

The hansom ride was uneventful; Eve was moderately well-behaved and was immersed in her primer most of the way there. Simple sentences, vocabulary… Practical stuff filled the pages now that she had the basics of the letters. I hoped to soon see some sentences formed of her making rather than just parroting.

The Orpheum was a huge theatre; not as old or as impressive as the one we had visited the night previous, but intimidating through its sheer size.

"This must be mainly a theatre and dance venue," murmured my little brother as we made our way inside. "The acoustics would be horrible."

Between performances, the theatre was quite deserted, and so we managed to enter its depths without being hindered. The dorms in which the ballet and chorus stayed were still, implying many had gone home during their reprise. We only saw the odd employee, and they were easily deterred with the claim that we were investors. Eve's eyes took in everything but she gave forth no reaction to anything.

That is, until we stumbled upon a janitorial room and even in the dim light we could see a watch face reflecting. When Sherlock held it before her, she shrunk back slightly, looking up at me with an expression that did better than words ever could.

"It's his," I spoke, her nod confirming this. I was not sure whether to be happy or anxious. "He must have been here very recently; anything of value would not remain unthieved long in this place."

"Watson and I will search the building," said Sherlock, his jaw set firmly, holding the expression of a hunting hound about to be set loose on a rabbit. "Mycroft, find a room with only one entrance and keep her safe. I do not need to ask you if you brought your pistol."

My firearm was receiving more attention lately than it had since I bought it; it rested inside my jacket now, and Eve had kept the police whistle close on my insistence since I had given it to her.

"Sherlock, be careful…" I sighed as I lifted the now still girl into my arms, attempting to comfort her, albeit awkwardly. "You, too, doctor. We do not know what Jackyl will attempt to do, and he has already proven himself to be without reserve when it comes to violence."

Watson nodded (although I noticed my brother did not), and gently brushed Eve's hair out of her eyes. "I will see you soon, little one. Hopefully when I do, this will be over."

She gave a timid nod, retreated, and then came forward again to kiss the doctor's cheek briefly before burying her face in my shoulder.

The man looked rather surprised and his face flushed a bit, but finally he smiled. "Look after her, Mycroft."

I sighed, tightening my grip on her slightly. "I will, doctor. I will. Good luck."

The two of us found a little-used office with a lock that yielded easily to a pick. I was luck enough to find the perfect thing to distract the fretting girl; a thick book of ballet pictures, showing various poses and shots from previous performances. She was content to sit on my lap, her rabbit on her own lap, and flip through them, pointing things out to me every few seconds. Despite this, both of us glanced frequently towards the door and flinched at every sound.

After half an hour and multiple pictures of unnaturally costumed dancers, I heard a banging, like the lids of rubbish bins, coming from outside the room. Frowning, I swiftly plucked Eve from my lap, rising and setting her on the chair. I went to the door, opening it but not going through it. I looked up to the tin air ducts (usually only a luxury for churches, but apparently Sinclair had spared no expense in his remodelling). It sounded like tin, but it wasn't coming from outside the room. Then it must have been...

I realized it just as the shrill, sharp police whistle blew but then was cut short as it was wretched from its lips, and I turned to see a long-haired man, fair of skin and coated with dust, on top of the desk. The grate of the room's duck was now hanging loose. His hands were around Eve's throat. The look on her face was one of indescribable terror, and I knew that image would never leave me.

I am neither inclined to combat or built for it, and I thought that at a moment like that I would freeze up entirely. Thankfully, some primitive section of my mind had survived formal primary education, university, and years of government work to allow me to think like a caveman when the odd occasion arouse.

I did not know if Jackyl had a weapon, and therefore I did not throw myself at him. I merely lurched towards the desk he stood on, shoving it with all my force. The laws of inertia worked as they should; it went one way while he stayed put, flailing to the floor, hands wretched free of the girl, while the desk slammed into the opposite wall.

I drew my pistol, but did not have time to raise it before Jackyl flung himself towards me, either not seeing the gun or not caring. He was a large man, nearly my height and fairly well muscled, and when his first blow struck the side of my face, I began to worry a bit. For now, the pain shooting from the site could be ignored, but it was clear he was fighting to win.

I managed to grab him by the collar, surprised at my own strength as I managed to hold him, but during the scuffle the pistol had been wretched from my hand and kicked to the far side of the room.

"Eve...!" I called out, glancing to the girl, her gasping from the strangulation growing more even. "Get the gun and bring it here."

Although the fear was still evident on her face and in her trembling form, she scrambled to her feet to obey. Stout-hearted thing... Though she would have to be to have survived three brutal years with the tiger I now had by the tail.

He was a fearful thing to look at; his clothes were shabby, torn in places, marred with stage paint and grease in other spots. His hair was uneven and shedding dust from the vents he had been cunning enough to employ (I theorized he had heard us from the other side of the wall and plotted his strike).

What disgusted me most, however, were his eyes. They were animalistic. Hateful and unregretful, but now that he was caught they held pleading, begging. He was pathetic. And yet beneath that, there was still that wild evil that had hurt a child and was not adverse to doing it again, for when Eve came close to hand me the gun, his leg flew up, catching her in the chest.

The gun flew up. I grabbled for it, but he was quicker than I. I heard one crack and then another. The scent of gun powder filled my nostrils. I was still breathing, and therefore deduced that Jackyl was a horrible aim, but then I felt the lightening pain and realized both bullets had sunk into my left arm. Before he could strike again I swung at him, missing his face but catching his hand, relieving him of the weapon.

"Eve? _Eve_!" The girl was doubled over on the floor, clutching her chest. "Eve, _go_!"

She looked reluctant, but when I hollered it again she ran, snatching the discarded gun on her way out the door.

As I stated before, fighting was not in my nature or in my build, but for a brief moment I believed I could overpower Jackyl with sheer size alone, especially when I managed to pin him against the wall despite the pain in my arm. It was not a fatal wound, but it was no scratch.

"I know who you are," he panted, speaking for the first time. His accent was more refined than I thought it would be, and the idea came to me that he had once been higher in life, and that something horrible had made him leave it at a very young age. Something that left him with enough anger to brutalize Eve and anyone else in his way. "And I know your time is worth too much to help that little brat."

I opened my mouth to speak, but that was what he wanted.

One of his hands wriggled free to his pocket, and the next thing I knew there was a foul smell in my nostrils and broken glass and a liquid on my face. The second breath I recognized it; ether.

I tried to fight it. I wanted to so desperately; my brother and Watson were unaware he was there, and Eve...

All the intelligence in the world will not allow you to fight off a chemical, however, and in seconds I slumped to the floor. The last thing I saw before fainting entirely was the abandoned stuffed rabbit, and then everything went to fog.


	23. Consequences of Our Actions

_"While we are free to choose our actions, we are not free to choose the consequences of our actions." - Stephen R. Covey _

**_Watson_**

"Wait."

I halted behind Holmes as he paused in front of a door, his head cocked to the side like a hound, listening for something.

"What's the matter?" I whispered.

"Thought I heard a scuffle," he replied, his brows furrowing.

"Well there are probably a few employees about," I said absently, glancing round us, "perhaps one of them – good Lord!"

Two gunshots had just rung out, the report slightly muffled from the distance but unmistakable nonetheless.

"Mycroft! That idiot, I told him to find a room with only one entrance!" Holmes growled irritably, but I could see the sudden worry hidden behind his eyes as he dashed back the way we had come.

"Wait, Holmes!" I gasped, reaching him and catching hold of his arm.

He pulled away, but not before I saw real fear in his gaze before he broke it, turning away from me.

"Calm down a moment – if that wasn't your brother's gun firing those shots, then we can't just go barging in there, it would be suicide," I said unsteadily, gripping his shoulder firmly, "stop for a moment and _think_, Holmes!"

That was certainly a reversal, my telling him to calm down and use his brain – usually it was the other way round.

He took a deep breath, and I saw him almost visibly pull his emotions back under firm rein once more.

"Quite right, Doctor," he said, swallowing hard, "you take that passage and I shall go the other direction; between the two of us we are bound to catch Jackyl, if it is indeed he."

"Right," I said without preamble, starting off down the darkened corridor warily.

"And shoot to kill," he hissed after me, that lurking fear tingeing his voice with a chilling menace.

I crept as quickly but noiselessly as possible down the semi-dark passage, working my way back in the direction of the shots and praying that Mycroft had everything under control. I did not know if I was more worried about him or about the girl – losing either of them would be a crushing blow to both Holmes and me. I dared not think about it but pressed onward stealthily, wondering which of us would reach the scene of action first.

I pulled my revolver from my pocket and kept it trained on the corridor ahead of me, glancing warily round me as I passed darkened doorways, listening for any sounds of approach.

I rounded a corner with care, looked round, and went to the next, feeling perspiration rolling down my face and realizing my nerves were keyed up higher than they had been in many a case. I edged round another corner and stopped short, seeing a familiar figure cowering in the dim corridor.

"Eve! What the –"

My words were halted as a figure loomed behind the shaking, petrified girl, brandishing a weapon similar to my own. It took no Holmesian deduction to perceive that this sinister man was that fiend Jackyl.

"Dr. Watson, how nice. Throw that gun down, unless you'd like the little lady caught in a cross-fire."

His voice was refined, actually cultured, but it held an edge that my medical instincts identified instantly as borderline mania. I well knew what he had done in the past, and that he would have no compunction about shooting the girl in the back right in front of me.

I reluctantly dropped my revolver, glancing away from the frightened child up to the man who was causing such fear. His malicious eyes glowed amid a dark long mane of hair, only adding to his animalistic aura. No wonder the girl had been in the state we had found her. The thought made me nearly literally ill.

But…the fact that he was out here, with the girl – what then of Mycroft?

My heart had leapt into my throat to choke me, and I swallowed with difficulty, praying my hasty conclusion was incorrect. But the animal in front of me gave me no time to think about it.

"Move forward into the light, Doctor, if you please. Get out of the way, girl."

I flinched as the man – if he could be called such – roughly shoved her into the wall. Eve slid down the wall in a silently crying heap, looking pleadingly at me as if to ask me to get her out of this horrendous situation.

"There is no possible way you can get out of this theatre, Jackyl," I said, trying to remain calm – if the man were insane perhaps I could talk the gun away from him.

Although, as he stepped forward to place the muzzle within a few inches of my heart, I began to have serious doubts on that possibility.

Jackyl started to say something with a vicious sneer, but he suddenly stiffened as a faint sound came from the darkness of the other corridor. His eyes and the gun never left me, however.

I cursed silently – of all the times for Holmes to _not_ be noiseless as a cat like he normally was!

"Mr. Holmes, you have exactly five seconds to toss your weapon out here and show yourself," the man said calmly, cocking the gun he held at my heart, "and I wouldn't try anything similar to what you're contemplating. One more noise and I assure you it would not pain me in the least to pull this trigger. Somehow I think you'd not like to see your biographer's blood all over the walls of this theatre, hm?"

I felt the perspiration rolling down my neck as there was dead silence for a moment. But only a moment. There was a metallic clang and the figure of my friend emerged from the corridor, his hands raised.

Jackyl took a few paces back from me, toward the cowering girl, and motioned Holmes over in my direction. My friend's face was deadly pale, as he desperately looked about for a sign of his brother before clenching his jaw and coming to a stop beside me.

"I'm sorry," I murmured, my eyes on the villain in front of us.

"You are not responsible," he replied quietly, "the man is obviously –"

He stopped as Jackyl hauled Eve to her feet by her bad arm, only laughing as the girl made a noiseless whimper of pain. I clenched my teeth, and Holmes laid a firm hand on my arm.

"What of – Mycroft?" he whispered.

I swallowed, shook my head. "I don't know."

He swore softly, eyes casting about for some way out of this. Jackyl held tight to the girl's arm, still keeping the gun trained on us.

"Pity you and that brother of yours didn't keep your noses out of this affair, Holmes," he said, smiling pleasantly as if discussing the latest London news, "I despise shooting more than one person in a day's time. So…disturbing."

Holmes's hand clenched painfully on my arm at the words, and my heart sank.

"I suppose I shan't get away if I kill one of you," he went on thoughtfully, twisting the girl's arm in mean pleasure, "but then again I shall hang anyway, so I haven't much to lose."

"You'll gain nothing by killing us, Jackyl," Holmes said, carefully controlling his voice.

"Not really, no," the man mused.

For an incredulous moment I thought he was going to surrender – not so. The man's face suddenly twisted in wicked glee and he shook Eve hard, making her cry harder.

"You seem to be very fond of these two gentlemen, missy," he snarled, his previously calm manner dissolving into an unnatural hatred, "which of them do you like better?"

The girl stared wide-eyed at him, not making a sound.

"Choose one of them," he hissed.

I caught my breath as I realized what the scoundrel meant – he was only going to kill one of us, and he was trying to force the girl to choose who was to live? The man was simply deranged, and the girl was desperately struggling to get free of his grip as he snarled again.

"I said choose one of them, you little brat!" he growled, shaking the terrified child.

Eve shook her head violently, not looking in our direction. Nor did she stop shaking it even when Jackyl slapped her hard across the face. I could feel my ears ringing with anger and a growing sense of nausea at this situation, spiraling down quickly into a veritable living hell.

But even after another minute of vicious abuse, Eve steadfastly refused to point out one or the other of us, and I breathed a tiny sigh of relief.

Which suddenly turned into a gasp of horror as Jackyl turned the question and the evil leer upon my dear friend.

"Well, now, Mr. Holmes. Your precious little girl doesn't want to name one of you, so _you_ shall have to instead," he said, his chilling laugh filling the room and freezing my blood as we stood there, motionless for a moment.

Holmes's face had blanched dead-white, and he released my arm, taking a step away.

"Don't you _dare_, Holmes," I hissed, knowing all too well what was going through his mind.

"Not a word out of you, Doctor!" Jackyl spat, pointing the gun at the cringing Eve, "or I'll let you watch that brat suffer a bit before I do anything else! You've ten seconds to choose, Mr. Holmes. One of you lives – which shall it be?"

I was acutely aware of the man's audible counting of the seconds, of Eve's frightened silent crying, of my own growing sense of fear and shock. Holmes looked over at me as the villain reached six, his steely grey eyes now unguarded and open – I could read every single emotion that was fighting for mastery in that noble mind.

I dared not speak for fear of Jackyl harming the girl, but I shook my head desperately at him, feeling my breath catch in my throat as I read the answer already in those grey depths.

My friend was not a man to openly show the softer emotions, but I knew he felt them deeply – and I also knew he was perfectly willing to take a bullet in my stead. The thought turned me positively sick.

"Seven. You had better chose, Mr. Holmes. Which of you is to remain alive? Eight."

My friend blinked rapidly several times and turned away again.

"Nine. Which of you lives, Holmes?"

I clenched my fists so hard I thought I might break my fingers. _Please, don't!_

"Ten."

"Watson," Holmes whispered hoarsely.

_No!_

"As you wish."

And before my numbed brain could realize what was happening, a smiling Jackyl aimed the cocked pistol at Holmes's head and pulled the trigger.


	24. Brave Acts

__

"Moral excellence comes about as a result of habit. We become just by doing just acts, temperate by doing temperate acts, brave by doing brave acts." - Aristotle

****

Holmes

Watson had ordered me not to, but I had never been one to do what was told. Mycroft could have told him that before the age of ten. Especially after the infamous acid incident.

__

Mycroft... I'm sorry for everything I've ever done. I only did it because I knew you'd still love me no matter how horrible I was.

The same went for Watson. I was not afraid to die, but had I the time there were a million and three things ranging from minor to unforgivable that I wished to apologized for. There was no time, however, and therefore I merely raised my head to look Jackyl in the eye. If I so much as glanced at my Boswell or the girl, I knew I would crumble.

I saw his finger move. I heard the trigger meet metal. What I heard afterwards, however, was not the crack of a gun but rather a useless clicking sound.

I wasted no time in leaping forward, tackling the beyond stunned Jackyl to the ground, twisting his arms behind him before he even knew what had happened. His yelp of startled pain brought me no small amount of joy, and I finally exhaled when the pistol that rightfully belonged to my brother was wretched from his grasp by my precious Watson.

"It must have misfired..." the doctor murmured, his face as pale as paper. I noted that his hands were shaking slightly. I could sympathize. "Holmes, do you have any idea how ridiculously lucky..." He paused when he opened the barrel, face going yet another shade whiter. When he displayed the six empty slots to me, I blinked as well. It was the soft sound of metal on metal that drew our attentions to Eve.

She held four bullets in her small hand, and let them fall onto the floor with a clatter. I saw it instantly in those dark eyes of hers and in the trace of gunpowder on her sleeve, not to mention that fact that she did not appear surprised. She had been in possession of the gun for a brief time. She had been smart enough to relieve it of its bullets. She had pretended to be ignorant to catch Jackyl off-guard.

Mycroft was right; this creature displayed some very interesting traits.

"You, little miss, have just saved my life," I said quietly, attempting to smile as I held her tormentor in place while I reached for a coil of stage rope to tie him with. "And rest assured, as soon as we are back in London, you are getting a package of the best sweets money can buy."

Watson made a move to gather the battered child into his arms, but before he could she took off running despite the pain she must have felt after Jackyl's attack, gesturing for us to come forward.

"Go," I ordered Watson, although I longed to know my brother's fate. "You're more useful to Mycroft."

My dearest friend nodded, following after the girl.

Silently, I hoped for my brother's safety. Aloud, I told my captive "If he is dead, you shall wish you were."

What Watson and Eve found, as they told me later, was an office in disarray and my brother sprawled upon the floor. Watson believed him dead until he felt for a pulse. Apparently, Eve would not let go her largest protector's good arm while Watson removed the bullets.

The police arrived eventually, summoned by an employee who had heard the shots. I made sure Jackyl was doubly chained and in capable hands before hurrying the way Eve had gone. When I saw my brother struggling to sit up, groggy from the drug and loss of blood but very much alive, I could not decide whether to embrace him or cuff him for not thinking of the air ducts as an entrance point.

With Eve tight in his arms, however, I could do neither, and contented myself knowing that the Whitehall officials would not treat kindly a man who had attempted to kill their control centre.

****

Watson

Although being shot was usually his brother's forte, both brothers shared their disregard of their health and their stubbornness. His arm in a sling to minimize the motion of the injured areas, Mycroft Holmes returned to Whitehall the day after Jackyl was captured.

Upon seeing him with this sling, Eve (whose previous experiences had been horrible enough to allow her to brush of the fresh injuries with barely any thought) had tittered noiselessly and stuck Bunny into it. He had glowered at her as he removed it, but this only prompted more laughter.

Now, immobilized arm or not, he cut an imposing figure as he tore through Whitehall, his brother and I with Eve in my arms following in his wake, towards the holding cells in its isolated cellar, a place reserved for spies and traitors to the Crown. When one of the underlings scuttling after his strides finally pressed a report into his hand, his eyes narrowed.

"What do you mean, he is ready to talk?" he questioned, his surprise understandable. A man like Jackyl was the contradictory of cooperative. Continuing reading, he found his answer. He looked up once more, watery eyes scanning the room. "As much as I agree he deserves nothing less, if unauthorized physical force was used to extract a confession, the entire case might be tossed out! Who in their right minds was foolish enough..."

"Sir...!" murmured one of the employees. "It _was _authorized, sir!"

"By _who_? I am the only one on this case with the power to do so, and Dr. Watson here outright refused to let me out of my flat last night!"

"When you are absent for medical reasons, I have acting power, sir," spoke up a timid, familiar voice.

All eyes were immediately on the secretary, but Mycroft himself looked the most surprised. I took was shocked; I knew the slight man despised violence. I could not imagine him authorizing a beating. "Trevor…"

His face held firm. "He hurt you and Miss Eve, sir. He deserved it."

The huge man was still for a moment, but then gave his employee a clap on the shoulder than nearly knocked him over, yet the secretary still smiled and flushed red. "Good man, Trevor. Sherlock, doctor… I believe you should be the ones to talk to him. I have had enough fisticuffs for quite a while."

Nodding, I gently set Eve upon the floor. I took note of her worried expression. "He will be chained, Eve. He is never going to hurt anyone again."

Holmes gave her head a pat, drawing a box from his inside jacket pocket and pressing it into her hands. "As promised, although I doubt Mycroft appreciates me giving you sugar."

She smiled, and although she looked back, she allowed herself to be led away by the elder Holmes as we made our way to the interrogation room where Jackyl had been brought.

The man was looking far from tame, and yet was hardly as wild as when we had tangled with him yesterday. The chains that bound his hands behind his back and his feet together and to the bolt imbedded in the very floor might have had something to do with it. The Whitehall interrogators had obviously been at him; one eye was halfway swollen cut and cuts and bruises peppered his face. His lip was split quite deeply. Even as a doctor, however, I could summon no sympathy for him. I only wished he could know how it felt to have a cross carved upon his back.

He tilted his head but did not meet our eyes as we entered. "And we claim to be the most humane nation. Hail Britannia."

"You made three years of an innocent child's life a living Hell," Holmes spoke, voice even but entirely cold. "You deserve so much worse. They said you are ready to talk."

"I will die either way," he replied with a shrug of his broad shoulders. "To see Sinclair on the scaffold beside me would be a wonderful final sight." Even in defeat, his bitterness was permitted to run rampant.

"So Sinclair is behind all of this?" I questioned, glad that we would have a chance to put that despicable man away.

"Oh, not all of it, doctor, but enough of it," sighed the man. "Best to start at the beginning, I suppose. Does either of you have a cigarette you'd waste on me?" Seeing our glares, he continued "I suppose not. So, they've said you know how the Ruby was stolen. I didn't have much to do with that; too low on the totem pole, see. Mason had the maps made for it, though, because he could get the ins and outs, and Truman's a master safecracker under his accountant's demeanour. Hyde got lucky; they needed dumb muscle and he was convenient. Sinclair organized the whole thing and paid for the expenses. He was too smart to cut it up and fence it right away, so he just paid salaries, ample salaries, and hid it. Those who complained had to use their ample salaries for the gravedigger's fee."

I had expected little else from such a brutal man, but all the same I scribbled notes into my journal to avoid meeting this man's eyes. After this was over, I never wished to see his face again.

"Mason quit soon after that; claimed he was taking the moral high road. That was… What? Three years ago? Around the time I picked up the brat. Thing is, Mason kept in contact with Truman, and Truman kept in contact with me. Nine or ten months ago Mason called the two of us to a tavern to discuss matters. Truman had learned that Sinclair was having the Ruby moved from its hiding place soon because of Mason's increased publicity. Didn't want Mason blabbing about where it was to the higher-ups to get points, see? He proposed that Truman divert it to somewhere else, somewhere only we knew about. Mason took charge, took the Ruby from Truman when he was supposed to move it, and buried it somewhere."

Holmes leaned forward, his grey eyes all but boring a hole in this confessing man. "Buried it _where_?"

Jackyl edged away from him, glaring sullenly. "Do you think he told me? I was lucky to even see it. He didn't even tell Truman. Only reason I was in on it was because he knew Sinclair trusted me with something. He didn't know it was betraying his sister, mind, but you know all about that… It was a smart plan. Sinclair thought he knew where it was, but only Mason did. He made up a map, he had a talent for it, and he tore it into two pieces; one only had longitude markings, the other only had latitude. He took a third piece of paper and wrote the coordinates of the Ruby on it. He kept the coordinates, we each had half of the map. And he insisted he mark us. Truman has one of those little crosses tattooed on his arm. Me, I hate needles. I had him mark up Eve in my place."

I struck him. I was not even aware that I had done anything at all until my fist came in contact with his face, and as soon as I realized it I was horrified, but not at all regretful.

Jackyl groaned softly, spitting out a small amount of blood onto the floor. "She looks human when she's cleaned up, doctor, but don't think she is. Not now. She's grown up in hate and pain, and now she's got a core of anger in her just like mine. You can't see it now, but if you know her when she's older… She'll find that the only way to get rid of that anger is to bring hate and pain to others."

"Time will be the judge of that," I replied, bending to pick up my notebook and pen from where they had fallen in my brief fit of rage. I tried to ignore his words, but deep inside me I wondered if he might be right.

"Why was Mason killed?" Holmes questioned, any surprise over my strike disappeared now, his intent on drawing out the story outweighing everything else at that moment. "Did he try to keep the Ruby for himself?"

He snorted, rolling his eyes. "Far from it. Mason knew more of the workings of the government than Sinclair; he knew we'd never be able to sell that Ruby even though the Royal Family had kept the theft hushed up."

"So why steal it from Sinclair? He risked his life in doing so, according to your description of the man."

"Why does a politician do anything?" Jackyl chuckled coldly. "Publicity, my good gentlemen."

This took both of us aback. "_Publicity_?"

"Mason portrayed himself as an everyman, a man who gets things done. Who would people vote for, an old grump who shuts himself up in his big office every day or a man who went out on his lonesome and retrieved a priceless royal heirloom from a group of ruffians? All he did, he did to be a hero without having to tangle with Sinclair."

It dawned on me. Mason must have indeed been quite a brilliant mind, but he had used his brilliance in all the wrong ways. "He was going to blame the two of you and turn it in."

He grinned, but there was no joy in it, only a sense that he was hollow within. "You've hit the nail on the head. He called us to the living funeral tent and told us with great glee what he was going to do, and that if we killed him, his sister would blow our cover." He chuckled. "Pity he didn't know that his sister would not have the chance. She would have rather died than admit she loved me to her brother, and in the end she did."

"The man that Scotland Yard shot at the carnival," Holmes spoke, brow furrowing. "He was never identified. Who was he?"

"An idiot who worked for me in the funeral tent. He wasn't much for socializing, and during the act he always wore a skull mask. He'd overheard Truman and I and he knew about the Ruby… Was dumb enough to think I had it on me, and figured he'd claim it after I was gone. He robbed my caravan of some papers but ran into a little snag when he realized he wasn't much of a match against bullets. They say you can be greedy or an idiot, but both at once will get you killed." He grinned like his jackal namesake at me. "Guess which one of the two I am, doctor?"

I ignored him the best I could, but I was well aware he was trying to get under my skin and succeeding quite thoroughly. "Where are the pieces of the map?"

"One is at the Orpheum. Sinclair housed me there; he still believes I was always on his side and that the Ruby is where he expects it to be; he's been a bit preoccupied this last year and a half becoming accustomed to being useless from the waist down and building up his little legal barrier with legitimate businesses and charity work. Truman must still have his. Believe me, you'll catch him soon. He's good once he's settled, but that woman of his kept them on the run and they told me he decorated her with a pistol. As for Mason's coordinates… It may have been with his sister, but I believe she would have told me. She _did_ love me quite truly. If they were, they're ash now. Besides, deep down, Mason only trusted himself. It was one of his few admirable traits. In any case, I don't know where it is, and you can hardly ask him now."

My mood fell quite greatly at this. There was no way we would recover the location of the Black Prince's Ruby now. But still... Not all was lost. The prime minister would be entirely free of suspicion after the case, minus the details of the gem, went public, and this monster would likely hang for murder and treason. There would be a chance to see Sinclair beside him, although it would be a challenge to get through Sinclair's lawyers.

It would have been wonderful to recover the Ruby, but cases do no always end the way they should, and freeing Eve from the bonds of her captors was enough to satisfy me.

Freeing her from us would be a much harder on me.


	25. The Agony of Parting

_"Only in the agony of parting do we look into the depths of love." – George Eliot_

**Holmes**

As Jackyl had predicted to us, Truman was captured with little fuss and both halves of the map were indeed recovered – with the exception of Mason's piece, which we could not locate anywhere. None of the imprisoned men could enlighten us as to its whereabouts.

This last detail put both my brother and I into a royal temper, I will confess, and in consequence of having to mediate, soothe, and reprimand by turns the both of us, Watson was also in no sweet spirit himself by the time Mycroft got around to informing us that he had arranged for Eve to go to an orphanage in the country.

"What?" was Watson's immediate reaction, the proclamation catching him off guard.

My brother gave a gentle snort. "Well you can't expect me to keep her here indefinitely, Doctor!"

"But –" he protested, but under the scrutiny of two sets of raised eyebrows he quieted on the instant, glancing at the closed door of Mycroft's spare room, where the girl was sleeping during this late-night conversation.

"It is the only thing to be done, Doctor," Mycroft explained patiently. "Whitehall runs these orphanages a sight better than the normal of their class; she will be quite well-treated, you may rest easy on that score."

I glanced at my dear friend, only to see a disconcerting unhappiness on his face, and then looked back at Mycroft. "When?"

"The day after tomorrow."

I started in dismay despite myself, and so did Watson – so soon?

"You are more than welcome to come along," my brother said, rubbing his eyes wearily and glancing at the clock – well after eleven, and it had been a long and weary day for us all. (especially for one as sedentary as he).

"Of course," Watson sighed mechanically, standing and reaching for his coat with a sudden, almost painful weariness.

I reflexively took it and held it for him to put on, and as he glanced at me in some surprise, nodding my quiet thanks, I saw something elusive in his expression that I was at a loss to place – something about the poor girl, no doubt.

"We will pick you up on our way, around nine-thirty, Sherlock," Mycroft said, rising tiredly from his chair and walking to the door with us, shutting it soundly behind us as I bellowed for the lone cab clopping down the street.

I turned my collar up against the chill, feeling a worse cold in my heart at the thought of that poor child reduced to a life in an orphanage, Whitehall-sponsored or no. It was not a good life for a child – but Mycroft was right, there was no other alternative.

Watson was deathly silent as we clopped along, and after waffling back and forth between wondering if he wanted silence or trying to gently probe his disturbing thoughts, I finally spoke.

"There really isn't any other choice, Watson."

He remained silent, looking out at the pitch blackness broken by the soft gaslights as we trotted along.

"You know she couldn't stay with Mycroft, and definitely not with us," I went on uncertainly.

"Yes, of course," he replied automatically.

"What's bothering you, dear fellow – it's not about the orphanage alone, there is something else," I said, turning in the cab to see him clearly in the feeble street illumination.

"Nothing, not really," he replied, a little too casually.

I sighed, not knowing exactly what to do. After a moment I put a light hand on his arm and left it there for a moment, still neither of us saying anything.

"She will be safe there, old fellow."

He flinched, starting at my words, and I knew I had hit upon the heart of the matter at last.

"That business in the theatre – it's shaken you up more than you've admitted," I said slowly. It was a statement, not a question.

"You and your infernal deduction, Holmes," I heard a rather forced laugh out of the darkness.

"Watson, neither Jackyl nor anyone else will ever touch her again - she will be safe, I promise, far safer than she ever has been in her horrible young life," I said softly, patting his arm in an effort to reassure.

To see him in this dejected manner was disturbing, to say the least; depression and melancholia were my usual vices, and to see them on a man so normally loving of life was more than a little alarming.

"I know that, and that is the only reason I am agreeing without question to this thing," he replied slowly, "I – keep seeing that scene in the theatre, I don't think it will ever leave my mind."

I knew that it would never leave mine; it would be of no wonder if that were the case. But I knew he would never admit to what he was really thinking – it had been almost as dangerous for me to be with the girl as it was for her to be with me. And of course, my tender-hearted friend never wanted to see either of us in that kind of peril again.

I heard a stifled sigh beside me and Watson settled back against the seat wearily.

I really had nothing else to say, nothing that would be more than an empty platitude at best. So I merely sat there until I felt his tense arm relax, and knew that he had dozed off in the cab after such a long and trying day.

I felt my brows furrow at the thought of all that had gone on. A shame we could never locate the Ruby, but it was definitely past time for this sordid case to close – I should be glad to see it do so and to get our lives back to some semblance of order after the chaos they had been thrown into. The girl's future was merely another loose end to wrap up in this final stage of the drama.

Or so I tried to convince myself.

**Watson**

Leaving that poor child at that orphanage the day after next was the hardest thing I had ever had to do in my long and rather adventurous life.

Eve had been quiet, more so than normal for her, in the train, sitting silently beside me or Mycroft by turns and clutching Bunny as if afraid he would be taken from her as well. She took no interest whatsoever in the passing scenery or in her primer – which showed more than clearly that she knew exactly where we were headed and why.

I had swung her up into my arms for the last time in the massive foyer of the orphanage as the two Holmeses met with a capable-looking woman about the paperwork. Mycroft had been right; the place was well-established and well-furnished, even comfortable, with impeccable staffing and pleasant activities for the children therein.

But even so, it was still an orphanage.

Eve clung tightly to me as I ambled aimlessly 'round the stately open room, trying to interest her in some of the things we could see through the windows – gardens, children her own age playing games and the like, but she would have none of it.

"You know, Mr. Holmes and Mr. Mycroft and I will come down often to visit you, Eve," I said, attempting to be cheerful, "and by that time, just think of all the things you'll have to draw for us!"

The child looked dolefully at me, then hid her face in my shoulder and gripped my jacket with her free hand. I tried a few more times to talk to her but it appeared to be having no good effect.

The two Holmeses at last returned to tell me all was settled, glancing nervously at the girl I held. I tried to calm the distrait child but finally, when I saw two big tears welling up in her dark eyes as she clutched my jacket tighter with a silent wail I could stand it no longer.

"I can't do this," I gasped, handing the crying girl into Mycroft's startled arms and all but bolting for the door.

Holmes followed me, catching up with me as I neared the entrance and grasping me firmly by the shoulders.

"Watson."

"Don't you dare tell me 'Everything's going to be fine, this is the best thing for her' – it may be true but I frankly don't care!" I snapped, feeling my clenched hands shaking more than I would have liked to admit to anyone.

Cold grey eyes softened as they looked into mine for a moment. "I'm sorry, dear fellow."

I took a long breath at the simple words and let it out slowly.

"Good man. Now you can't just leave her like this without saying goodbye – and honestly you're the only one she's going to calm down for. Come along now, lest my brother have a panic attack."

Had the situation not been so heart-wrenching, I should have laughed when I saw a very uncomfortable Mycroft Holmes trying to pry a near-hysterical child off himself and failing most miserably.

"Sherlock, Doctor – get this – "

Younger brother shot him a glare that could have frozen a midday in August, and for once elder sibling snapped his mouth shut as I set my jaw and pulled Eve gently away from the man, setting her on the floor and kneeling in front of her.

"Eve, look at me," I said, and the tiny face turned mournfully upward to meet mine. "We're not leaving you here because we don't want you, dear. This is the safest place for you, and we want you to be safe."

She shook her head vigourously, and I was reminded of Holmes and how he much preferred things to not be quite placid and safe 'round him – she obviously would rather have the danger and be able to stay with the only people who had showed her that there were men of a different ilk than Jackyl in the world. But I forced a smile to my face and went on.

"You're going to be fine, Eve – there are so many children your own age here, and you will be far too busy to miss us," I said.

The girl's eyes welled up once more and she nearly fell forward, throwing her arms around my neck. I cared naught that the two Holmeses were watching my own eyes fill with unshed tears to match the abused child's.

**Holmes**

"Sherlock, you act as if it were a horrible thing – it was the only conceivable course of action!"

My brother was being his usual calm and placid self, at least externally, and it was beginning to grate on my already frayed nerves as we traveled back to London.

"In six months she will have forgotten all of us and will have moved on to a better life, brother. You really must stop worrying about the girl, she will be fine," he said in annoyance, going back to his paper.

"She isn't the one I'm worried about, Mycroft," I said softly, watching Watson stare blankly out of the train window, in the same position he had been in for the last two hours. I honestly worried for the man; he had become so close to the girl over the course of the case. But then, I thought my brother had as well, and yet he had buried himself in the stock page.

He was hardly the kind to open up to a person, however. Watson was, and he had let his heart be possessed entirely by the creature he knew he would have to part with. I knew it had been foolish of him, yet I could not entirely begrudge him the process of mourning.

After a week and a half of resuming our comfortable life in Baker Street, a fresh new case Lestrade had brought to us, and the arrival in the post of a scribbled crayon drawing from a certain resident of a governmental orphanage, Watson's spirits seemed to have returned to normal, and his mind and heart had been put at ease in the knowledge that it had been the right decision.

I was heartily glad to have my normal biographer back – for a few days I had felt as if I were living with a stranger.

We had returned from a walk in Regent's Park on a warmer day than the last few had been, and were just sitting down to tea when a now-familiar heavy tread was heard upon the stairs.

Watson glanced at me over the rim of his teacup. "Odd."

"Very. Do hurry up, Mycroft!" I bellowed through the open hall door.

But as my brother appeared in the doorway, I dropped my teacup, seeing the pallour of his normally calm face and the air of general unease that hovered 'round him.

"What is it?" I asked, both of us standing to meet him.

He shoved a folded telegram in our direction, too breathless from his exertions on the stairs to speak. Watson took it first, scanned it, and his face drained of all colour, taking on the impression as if he were about to be ill.

I gripped his shoulder worriedly, reading it from behind him and feeling a sinking feeling at my own heart as I did so.

REGRET TO INFORM YOU RECENT WARD SUDDENLY MISSING STOP ROOM SHOWS SIGNS OF STRUGGLE NO OTHER TRACES FOUND AS OF YET STOP PLEASE ADVISE COURSE OF ACTION STOP.


	26. The Heritage of Children

__

"Flowers that are so pathetic in their beauty, frail as the clouds, and in their coloring as gorgeous as the heavens, had through thousands of years been the heritage of children - honoured as the jewellery of God..." - Thomas De Quincey

****

Holmes

Even in his distress (for despite the lengths he went to in order to hide it, my brother was quite obviously troubled), he was as organized as ever. He informed us once he had his breath back that Scotland Yard was already heading to the area, and that Trevor was purchasing us tickets on the next train out.

I had seen this distress before, and quite recently at that. It had appeared when the Whitehall legal advisors had admitted that despite the confession of Jackyl (Truman was insufferably tight-lipped on most matters), Sinclair could not be touched; he was simply too powerful. That, and what jury would send a man in a wheelchair to prison?

Once we were on the train and all that was known had been explained, a horrible silence settled over the three of us (Trevor had remained at Whitehall to manage things). All three of us knew the reason for it, but none of us wished to discuss it. The mood was not at all improved by the combination of a sudden cold snap and the introduction of pouring rain, which battered relentlessly against the compartment window.

In the end, it was Mycroft who approached the matter with the delicacy of an ambassador, which was far from being the right tone for comfort. "Doctor, this is a very singular occurrence. The orphanages are very well guarded, and…"

"You told me she'd be safe!" Watson spat back, normally gentle face tinged with wrath. "Worse yet, we told _her_ she'd be safe! And now she's been taken away somewhere, likely beaten… For all we know she could be de…" The word withered in his mouth and refused to fall. For a moment, my friend looked entirely broken, and I wondered how much of his recovery in the last week and half had been a charade.

I expected Mycroft to snap back at him, no one talked to him that way, but instead he bowed his head. I believe it was to hide his eyes; there was a great disturbance in their watery depths, as well as tendrils of pain from his recovering arm. When he did speak, it was in a hoarse whisper that did not suit him at all.

"Do you not think I feel terrible enough, doctor? There is no need for you to berate me; my own conscious is doing a good enough job of that."

Watson sighed, directly his gaze out the window. "I apologize, Mycroft… No one could have seen this coming."

"I _should _have! It is my specialty to foresee things, my _job_…!"

"None of us thought Sinclair would go to such lengths," I spoke, trying to banish the air of melancholy from the compartment. It was odd to be the one trying to raise spirits instead of dampening them. "My theory is that he's discovered that the Black Prince's Ruby is not where is should be and, like everyone else, believes Eve holds some key to it."

"Likely…" murmured my brother, head still bowed slightly, but now more in thought than in shame. "Doctor, if they want information from her, we have time. They will not throw away any chance they have of recovering the gem on a whim."

The good doctor nodded, but I could see little comfort on his features. I knew this would likely remain until he could see the girl with his own eyes.

The rest of the train ride, and the following cab ride, were unbearably silent. When we reached the orphanage we were met with the same woman who had taken care of Eve's paperwork.

"Mrs. Garthe, as you likely remember," she greeted, voice curt and face pulled with worry. She jumped straight to the point. "There is no chance she simply ran away; there would have been other signs, and the struggle… There was blood. I must assure you gentlemen, this is the first time anything like this has happened at a Whitehall orphanage. We know many of these children are wanted by criminals and take measures accordingly, but…"

"We are not questioning your competence; Sinclair is a very driven man," I replied, following her down the hallway to the crime scene. "I assume all the staff has thorough background searches? Of course. What outsiders did she see since she came here? Potential adopters?"

"We run a background check on potential parents as well, and as an extra measure all meetings and interviews take place away from the orphanage. Eve was not yet eligible for adoption; we keep them in a safe environment until their wounds have begun to heal. She's such a quiet little thing… And not just because of the obvious. She was not all that sociable, wouldn't communicate with the counsellors we keep on staff for children like her, mostly occupied herself with those primers… But she had been making progress, beginning to play with the others… Here's her room; they're housed in single rooms until they adjust, it's usually more comfortable for them."

I barely heard her as we entered the room. It was well-lit, the walls were a pleasant light yellow, the bed looked comfortable… There was a small desk and chair in the corner, now overturned, crayon drawings and books of printing scattered about the place. A small pool of blood tarnished the polished hardwood.

"We discovered this only an hour and a half ago; we sent the telegram right away," Mrs. Grathe murmured from the doorway. "She couldn't have been gone long, as she was present at lunch."

"And the blood is still quite fresh," Watson added, attempting to ignore the spot of scarlet liquid, searching the room for any traces of a clue. When his eyes came upon the closet and saw the lavender dress she had worn to the ballet, they dropped back down to the floor.

"I can't see anything of use here," sighed my brother, starting slightly when I picked up a primer and plucking it from my hands. His face fell slightly. "… She'd begun full sentences…?" There was something almost mournful in his voice, but when I shot him a questioning look, he ruffled and replied with a measured amount of gruffness. "I merely thought it would take her longer."

__

Or you miss her a little more than you imply, brother…

"There is nothing here to aid us," I said instead of teasing him. There was no time for that. "Mycroft, you said Scotland Yard was searching the area?"

"Yes. Inspector Lestrade was put in charge…"

"God help us."

Brother continued, ignoring me in a seamless way that had almost become an art form over the years. "… so we should go meet with him and see what they have found. Trevor is to come after he has cleared things at Whitehall; I wanted him to check where Sinclair himself is."

We were both soaked to the bone once more merely piling into the hansom, and I pitied the officers combing wheat fields and muddy roads. My pity found new root very soon, however.

****

Watson

As pressing as the situation was, it was nothing short of miserable to step out into that soul-chilling rain. Wrapping my coat as tight as I could, I spotted through the mess a rather lean officer sprinting towards us, obviously Lestrade, and the foolish man wasn't wearing a jacket. When he neared, I could see something bundled in his coat.

Mycroft was the closest and therefore the object was shoved into his arms. His face paled a shade and his grip tightened protectively, leaning over the mass of fabric to shield it from the rain the best he could. Only when it fidgeted weakly did I realize what it was.

"She was lying in one of the fields," Lestrade stated, his voice already showing signs of a developing head cold. "We would have missed her if we hadn't heard someone blowing a police whistle. Bright of you to give that to her, Mr. Holmes."

The huge man did not reply but rather climbed back into the cab, his brother and I following at his heels. Once inside, he began to peel back soaked layers of cloth (the silver whistle, her saving grace, clattering to the floor with them) to reveal the shivering, sodden form of Eve, clad in a torn and muddied dress, her lips and fingertips blue, face bruising, eyes open but not focused. A small trickle of blood came from between her lips, and a deeper cut was matting her hair with the sticky substance.

I only thing my mind would let me think of was that her rabbit was nowhere to be found.

"The nearest hotel!" Holmes barked at the cab driver. I barely heard him. "Hurry!"

Mycroft began to rub the girl's limbs to warm them as I scrounged for a blanket under the seat, finally coming up with a thin but dry one to wrap around her for some trace of warmth. I never thought I would see true terror in the eyes of a Holmes, but I saw it then.

We arrived at a modest but decent building, Eve being transferred to my arms as we exited. I cherished holding her once again, but the struggling of her breath against my shoulder filled me with dread. We were given a room quickly by a terrified desk clerk, and Mycroft stayed to secure a pageboy's service while Holmes and I took her to our hasty accommodations, immediately plunking her into the bathtub and running lukewarm water into it.

By the time Mycroft had returned I had stopped the bleeding, and colour was beginning to make its way back to the girl's face, although the hint of blue was being replaced with the flush of fever.

"How is she...?" he questioned, his brother giving the bathroom a wide berth, choosing to bury himself in the papers Mycroft had brought along.

"I don't believe she has a serious concussion," I spoke, too occupied with the girl to look at the corpulent man. "But her ribs were bruised rather badly, and her wrist will have to be bound again..." I pressed a hand to her forehead, feeling the burning heat I had dreaded. "And her fever is climbing steadily..."

"An employee is bringing up extra blankets, and they said they could hunt up a warm nightdress and some medicine for her," he put in, his voice strained and nervous, his unanswered question making itself obvious in his tones.

I sighed, lifting Eve's battered and bruised form from the muddy water, sending Mycroft scrambling to unfold one of the thick towels for her. "In the state she's in, a high fever... Well, it will do her no good."

"How bad could it..." he half-questioned tersely as the soft fabric engulfed the girl.

I did not want to speak the words, but I knew my face would betray any comforting lies. "I do not want to bring ill fate, but... a fever prompted by something like this could easily kill a child."

This made even Holmes look up from the damp files. His face only held surprise for a moment, however, before it hastened to stone. "I swear on my heart, Watson, that the next time I see Sinclair I will kill him."

"Better to make him suffer in court, Sherlock," elder brother put in, tone warning although his downcast expression made it clear that given half a chance, he would choke the life out of the man with his bare hands, crippled or not. "Scotland Yard is sending scouts out over the area to see if there's any location where Sinclair's hired muscle could be hiding. Once we know more, you may get the chance to confront him. Sinclair seems the type who would handle matters directly."

Half an hour passed as slowly as a lifetime. A hotel employee brought up a bottle of medicine, a stack of blankets, and a thick flannel nightgown that was far too big for the girl but did provide warmth. Eve was alternated between piled under blankets on the bed or being shifted amongst the three of us when coughing fits emerged. She would cling to us and whimper silently, but I do not think she was ever entirely conscious during that time.

She did not even move from where she lay under the coverings, Holmes mopping her feverish brow with a damp cloth, when Lestrade flung open the door.

"Sorry...!" he apologized upon receiving three separate glares. "But... They've found something! There's a gutted mansion up in the woods not two miles from here. We checked its deed, and it's owned by one of the charities Sinclair fronts. There's a ramp built over the back stairs, which means..."

"That Sinclair himself is likely there. Inspector," Mycroft said, starting as if from a deep sleep. "What is that charity's speciality?"

"Er... Just a moment." He fetched several limp documents running with ink from his borrowed jacket. "They build orphanages, apparently. They received rather fast approval..."

"That's it." Despite apparently discovering something, there was none of the usual excitement in the large man's voice. "That's how they found her. Orphanage inspectors on Sinclair's payroll dropped into the Whitehall establishment, poked around until they find her, and then reported back the best way to get in unnoticed."

"We must investigate the building," Holmes stated, tossing the compress into the bowl of cool water and springing to his feet. "Sinclair won't escape our clutches this time."

Inspector Lestrade scowled at this, stashing the papers away again. "We need a warrant to go anywhere near that building, Holmes! Sinclair has more lawyers than you can count on both your hands; if we infringe on his rights..."

"That monster doesn't _have_ any rights! He threw them away the moment he carved his name on Eve's arm!"

Their escalating voices fell silent when the girl in question gave a series of racking coughs. Mycroft was the one to lift her into his arms, and when he pushed the blanket away from her flushed face I saw her eyes, tired and filled with pain, but alert.

The portly man was silent as he rubbed her back to ease her coughing until she fell silent again, tears sliding down her hot cheeks. When he spoke, his voice was harder than diamond. "Sherlock, Doctor, you are no official form of law enforcement, and therefore trespassing is the most you can be charged with. I will see to it that your names remain spotless if you go to that mansion."

Lestrade was visibly aghast. "Mr. Holmes, with all due respect, it is against the law..."

Mycroft kept his gaze firm, causing the inspector to shrink back slightly. "Inspector, I am above the law." He now turned his grey eyes towards Holmes and I. "Avoid conflict; Sinclair will likely have plenty of help with him. Get enough information for an emergency warrant, I will deal with the consequences, and then get out."

We both nodded, and after I spared a final touch to Eve's cheek (still flaming with the fever that threatened to consume her), we were off into the rain once more.


	27. Small Acts of Kindness

_"No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted." - Aesop_

****

Watson

I turned my coat collar up as rain sloshed down from a tree branch, but the water had already worked its way through my outerwear and chilled me to the bone. Judging from Holmes's swearing as he slunk ahead of me through the trees, the branches were dousing him as well.

My mind went back to that poor child fighting for her life back in the hotel, and I decided that the kind of man who would leave a girl outside in such elements was no better than an animal. Each of the Holmeses had already expressed a desire to have the man's neck between their capable hands, and I for one would never stop them, doctor or no - in fact I would be more than happy to assist them.

But one of us had to remain detached from the case, and it was rather much of a reversal for me to be the one trying to remain aloof and unemotional. We would have to have all our wits about us - with any luck, we could find evidence for an emergency warrant and be back outside this house before Sinclair knew we were even on the premises.

Holmes held a dripping branch out of the way so it would not slap me in the face, and we ducked through the opening to see the crumbling mansion ahead of us. He glanced at me, and I nervously fingered the revolver in my pocket, squinting through the rain at the grey building.

"We must be absolutely noiseless - remember Sinclair kept several of those lovely guard dogs for illegal purposes around the premises," he said in an undertone, leaning close to my ear to be heard over the thunder in the distance.

"Pleasant thought."

"Isn't it, though?"

"Can you get a window open, do you think?"

"Honestly, Watson!"

I rolled my eyes as I followed him, warily looking round us for any signs of being observed. I knew his apparently flippant manner was his method of hiding his anger at Eve's treatment, and I took a deep breath to calm my own distrait emotions as we slunk along the wall to the back of the house.

"It looks abandoned to me," I whispered as he extracted a jemmy (one could count on him to be ready for near anything) from his pocket, dashing rain from his face.

"But it is not - the shades are not drawn on a few of those upstairs windows and there are footprints in the path over there that have not yet been washed away by the rain, you see?"

I glanced at the items in question, then turned my attention to watching 'round us for any signs of life, human or canine, as Holmes slid the tool under the window latch. There was a soft click and he gave a sigh of satisfaction, slowly opening the window and disappearing inside.

With one more look to ensure that we had not been seen as of yet, I took his hand and he pulled me through the window, wincing as my boot struck the sill with a loud thump on my way.

"Sorry!"

"Shhh!" Holmes stood for a long moment, listening intently. There was no sound at all.

"Do you suppose Sinclair is in the house?" I whispered.

"I have no idea," he returned, closing the window against the rain and brushing a stream of water out of his hair, "but let us hope that if he is, he is in another part of the mansion. Come, Watson, we must make haste."

We were in a small study that obviously had not been touched in quite some time - there were no footprints in the dust and it was all but bare of furniture. We should have to find a used study or bedroom if we were to gain enough information to get an emergency warrant issued. Holmes peeked out into the darkened hallway and apparently saw nothing (not that either of us could see well, for the cloud cover was sending not even watery light through the shaded windows), for he pulled me out after him and noiselessly shut the door.

We crept along a corridor and stopped suddenly when we saw a glow from a side hall intersecting with ours. Obviously the inhabited portion of the house - and either a lamp or a candle was lit.

I was not overly thrilled about the idea of walking straight into an area where someone obviously was living, but Holmes started down the hall without a backward glance - what else was I to do but follow? It never occurred to the detective that I would not be right behind him. I sighed, shaking my head, and tiptoed behind his shadowy form as we made our way down the hall.

We had not yet reached the light when I could see there was a bend in the corridor, and we slowed a bit. I swallowed nervously as we approached, feeling every muscle within my body tense in preparation for heaven only knew what.

Suddenly I caught my breath as Holmes stiffened in front of me, throwing a hand out to stop me. For a moment nothing happened, there was the same dead silence broken only by the drumming rain on the roof.

"What?" I said in a barely audible whisper.

"Heard something."

"From up ahead?"

Holmes glanced nervously about at the shadows.

"No, from -"

But I heard it too now, coming not from the pool of glowing light ahead but from the darkness behind us. I swallowed hard, recognising the slight noise, and felt Holmes's hand clench on my arm and knew that he had also categorised the sounds.

The noise was a quiet snarling along with the slight clink of a chain. One of Sinclair's dogs had scented us and was getting nearer by the minute.

We both made for the nearest room with an open door as quickly and as softly as we could, slipping into the darkness. At that instant, I would have stopped my heart's beating to remain noiseless if I could have. Part of me knew, however, that no matter how quiet we were, that dog could still smell us perfectly well.

All the same, my heart (along with my stomach and a score of other organs) plummeted when the door creaked wider and the glow of a candle illuminated not only our forms but the face of a huge, snarling mastiff.

I recognized the man holding its chain to be the gentleman who had accompanied Sinclair at the ballet.

"Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson," the servant greeted, almost amiable as he levelled a pistol to my chest. "Mr. Sinclair has been expecting you. Please, come this way."

**__**

Mycroft

I had banished that nervous Scotland Yarder to the bathroom for a hot shower, sending for a steaming drink and a few more blankets - Lestrade was sneezing so hard the noise was actually painful to the ears, and he could very well be on his way to the girl's condition were he not careful.

Besides, he was being frightfully annoying with his muttering about 'due process of law' and so on.

Free of that distraction, I turned my attentions back to the slight form in my arms. The girl's eyes had been alert though pained when my brother and the Doctor had left, but they were now closed again and I had no idea if she was even conscious or not.

Watson had told me what to do, and I had worked over the poor child for the better part of an hour without the Doctor's aid. I hoped that it was not my wishful thinking that said she was looking a slight bit better. Her forehead did not feel as hot as before, and the coughing spasms were not as frequent, for which I was thoroughly thankful.

I knew that this was not my fault, that even my engulfing mind could have predicted this, but all the same I whispered apologies to the feverish child. I did not care if she could hear me; they were more to soothe myself than her, anyway.

Eve appeared to now be sleeping, albeit restlessly, and I laid her back down on the bed as gently as I could, hoping she would remain that way. I then sat back to mop my brow, feeling very, very old all of a sudden, and only just now noticing that my arm was rather protesting the efforts of the past few hours and holding the child.

I was examining the bandage around the healing wounds when the door flew open and a slight figure dove to catch it before it slammed into the wall, shutting it and then stumbling a bit into the room, coughing harshly.

"Trevor! What the devil - you're soaking wet!"

My poor secretary was indeed dripping enough water over the carpet to fill a large bathtub, his face a picture of comical misery but also pleased triumph as he held up a very wet and bedraggled Bunny.

"Don't tell me you -"

"Well, I th-thought Miss Eve might want it, poor little thing," he said through chattering teeth, "S-so I joined the Scotland Yard searchers to find it before coming straight to you."

Foolish heroics, but it was a kind thought and I blessed the lad for it. Lestrade came out of the bath clad in semi-damp clothes, and stared at the dripping young man and rabbit.

"Get in there, Trevor, before you catch your death of pneumonia. Lestrade, there's a pot of tea on the table, help yourself. Go on, Trevor!"

"What about the b-bunny, sir?"

"I'll take it," I growled, and my secretary plopped the sopping animal into my hand with a rather disgusting squishing noise.

I held the toy by one ear and rose, after checking to see that Eve was still sleeping soundly through this miniature melodrama, to try and bring it back to some semblance of normalcy. Lestrade had downed three cups of tea and left without another word to fetch some of his men, still muttering about warrants and procedures. I now understood why my brother made such a habit of ignoring the official forces as often as he did.

I took a dry towel from the bath before Trevor closed the door and began to blot the animal's fur with it, after first wringing out a good bit of muddy water from its stuffing. Honestly, after all the beatings the thing had received it was probably mildewed by now; but it would no doubt be of a comfort to the girl once she regained her senses.

Indeed, the simple toy had been an immense comfort to her already - she could not bear to be parted with the thing even in its varying stages of filthiness. As I squeezed some more water out of the floppy ears, noting with some weariness the section Dr. Watson had repaired, I absently wondered why Mason (according to Hyde, anyway) had given the girl the rabbit when they had her the firsttime and if he had known how much the poor girl loved the thing.

_Wait..._

Mason had led us on a post-mortem merry wild-goose chase all 'round this case and was fantastically brilliant (if not decidedly malicious), as we had been clearly shown. Surely such an intelligent and cold-hearted man, who had plotted one of the most daring robberies in the country's history and had thwarted all efforts to stop him, would have realised the value of a child's affections as a playing piece.

I picked up the limp rabbit and scanned the grungy toy, a growing suspicion rising within me.

Trevor re-emerged from the bathroom, slightly less wet and a bit warmer, wringing water from his cuffs, and stopped when he saw me. "Not beyond repair, is it, Mr. Holmes?"

"Repair will come later, Trevor. Get me a pair of scissors, if you please?"

The young man blinked. "Scissors, sir?"

"Scissors. I believe I know now where Mason hid the location of that infernal Ruby."


	28. With Silence

_"Lying is done with words, but also with silence." - Adrienne Rich_

**Holmes**

As we were marched through the manor, I could not help but get the feeling from the peeling wallpaper, the neglected floors, and the layers upon layers of dust that we were walking about a haunted house. Although I most certainly do not believe in ghosts, I would have rather face one hundred phantoms than meet Michael Sinclair face to face.

Glancing over to my dear friend and biographer, I could see that his face had gone quite pale. I did not blame him; with a gun and a dog possessing a very large, sharp set of fangs, the odds were surely stacked against us.

The servant, I refused to call him a gentleman, had obviously read some of Watson's stories, for he relieved the doctor of his pistol before we so much as took a step out of our ill-chosen hiding place. He did not take mine, however, and from this I deduced that he was not a frequent reader of our chronicles.

So much for escaping on my literary personality… On the other hand, this also meant that I had a concealed weapon on my person. This manservant may have been loyal enough to be included in such dealings, but for all his sharp clothing he apparently was not as smart as he appeared to be.

We finally came to a door that showed signs of very recent use. My heart also gave a dual sensation of dread and hope; I could see tracks made by a wheelchair in the thick dust leading into the room, but the only other set of prints matched the ones our captor was making at that very moment. I had seen no other signs, footprints or otherwise, that there was anyone else in the manor.

It made sense; we had only gotten this far because Sinclair had relied on the weak to do his dirty work, and in turn the weak betrayed him once another party applied pressure. He had learned his lesson, and now his trust was only in himself and his attendant. Luckily for Watson and me, his complete trust was in a man who had forgotten to pat down prisoners for weapons.

The hinge of the heavy door creaked as we were admitted, and a slight grinding indicated that it had been deprived of oil for quite some time. The room itself, on the other hand, was almost comfortable. A fire had been lit, filling the room not only with warmth but with a pleasant glow. What furniture had been left by the previous owners had been dusted, the decorations on the wall were rusted and yet rustic… Had we not been in such mortal danger, I almost would have felt welcome.

Sitting in the middle of this reasonable comfort, wheels resting within the fibres of a thick Persian rug, was Michael Sinclair, back straight against his wheelchair, an infuriatingly casual smile upon his level face.

"Not a very pleasant to be out, is it, gentlemen?" greeted the crippled man, clasping his hands together on his lap. "I am glad you stopped by; I was beginning to worry that you would go against your nature and allow Scotland Yard to handle things. I can assure you, however, had any officer gotten within a mile and a half of the grounds, Callaway and I would have been spirited away before they arrived."

Callaway, as he was apparently called, was attaching the chain that held the snarling beast to a metal ring that had been screwed into the wall presumably for that purpose. For all our sakes, I hoped it was screwed in tightly; that animal looked as if it would attack even its master merely to enjoy the taste of blood.

"Ah, admiring one of my prize dogs, are you? You must have good taste, Mr. Holmes." There was poison dripping from every word that passed from his mouth. "Over the years, I've rather perfected my training of them. Now, people think animals cannot truly hate, but they can, it merely takes more work than making a person hate. But their hate is so much purer… Imagine the wrath, Mr. Holmes, of one unloved from the moment they were born, beaten and starved for no reason other than one can do so, isolated from all sources of joy… Picture the anger building up within that creature, the hate it will come to feel for the very world that created it… The monster that this creates." He gave a smile that was nothing short of evil, and I despised him more than anything else that I had ever encountered. "As you can see from the little experiment I encouraged, the process works equally well with children. That girl may seem sweet now, but as she grows she will not soon forget all she has been through."

Watson gave a near growl. "Is that what she was to you? An experiment?"

"After those dolts Hyde and Jackyl scared her so badly she refused to eat, she hardly would have made a suitable plaything when she was older. If you start them young enough, the hate gets into their very blood. No, all my girls are obedient; couldn't have one stabbing me while I slept, could I?"

My friend threw himself forward, likely meaning to tackle the smug devil out of his chair and possibly through the window if he could get him that far, but Callaway grabbed him under the arms, pinching at the nerves there and forcing dear Watson to the ground with a sharp, clear cry of pain.

When I dropped to my knees to assist him, the manservant made a move to stop me, but Sinclair waved him away.

"No, no, Callaway, let him. You see, this highlights a very good point of my thesis; interdependence is no more than reciprocated dependence. It is no more noble, no more weak… I dare say Callaway might have put three bullets in your neck when you bent to help him, Mr. Holmes. The only reason you are in my company tonight is in defence of a little girl whom you barely know and who has no lasting impact on your life."

"I couldn't expect you to comprehend something like that," hissed the good doctor as I helped him struggle back up onto his feet. He refused to remain on his knees before this creature.

"I don't disagree with you, Dr. Watson! I simply don't see anything in that girl aside from the experiment that has been her life. I have no lasting affections. Perhaps this is the reason why you are at my mercy and I am in control… Care for others leads to negligence of oneself. Why, Mr. Holmes here would have died in your stead, and even Eve took abuse rather than sentence one of you to the bullet. Don't look so surprised, you think I can't get at Whitehall's reports? _That_ little episode I did not anticipate; she should not have been so attached. But then, she is young and trusting. Her anger will grow with her."

"She was _so attached _because she finally learned that there was kindness in the world beyond her casket…" His voice was low and hoarse. "She was loved." He paused at this, face stiffening and jaw setting. "No. She _is _loved!"

"Hmm…" His tone was entirely condescending, thoroughly amused at what he considered to be antics. "Perhaps she will be yet, a loving family taking her in out of the goodness of their hearts. Punishing her for ungratefulness when she acts out. Rejecting her when she is grown and no longer adorably mischievous but merely a savage monster with no concept of emotions. I've seen it happen with dogs, and I've seen it happen with people. She will be no different."

Watson all but growled, his hate for the man evident in his very eyes. "Why are we here, Sinclair? Why tear that child back into such a horrible place?"

"I don't care a mite for the child; she served her purpose as soon as your received the message that she was missing. She does not know where the Ruby is, for she would have told you by now. Nor do I have any idea as to its whereabouts thanks to that devil Mason…" Wrath became near glee as a smile came onto his face. "But I am an optimist, gentlemen, and being such decided to make the best of a bad situation. Your fondness for little Eve made her wonderful bait. I strive to be the best I can be, and no villain has succeeded in killing Sherlock Holmes. A wonderful little goal, don't you think?"

"You…" Watson lunged again, his emotions overriding his common sense (how horrible, to be controlled so thoroughly by whims). I did not stop him, because it provided the distraction I had been waiting for.

One moment, Callaway had swooped down to grab Watson. He laid hands on him, and then fell to the ground with a chorus of painful yowls. I had managed to get a bullet in his arm, and now I put one in his upper leg. He would not be getting up to help his master any time soon.

"It's over, Sinclair," I spoke, quashing the swell of pride that was rising in my chest. He had hurt so many people, he had indirectly starved and beaten Eve like a little boy pulling the legs off a spider to see what would happen, and now he would face the courts.

The monster had the gall to chuckle. "Oh, Mr. Holmes, there is your trusting nature again…" Before I knew what had happened, he was on his feet and had snatched one of the pikes from the wall, and swung it with a swiftness I could barely follow, knocking the pistol clear across the room and leaving a shallow gash on my hand. "I've lied about so many things, Mr. Holmes, so why on earth did you assume I was truthful about being crippled…?"

**Trevor**

As Mr. Holmes cut through the aged stitching of the much-loved rabbit, I almost expected to see the red sheen of the Black Prince's Ruby nestled within the dingy stuffing.

My employer must have noticed my expression, for despite the tension that hung over the room he gave a rare, soft chuckle. "The actual Ruby will not be in the rabbit, Trevor. It's one hundred and seventy carats without the setting; we'd have noticed the weight before. Ah! Here we are…!"

He pulled from the incision a black mass no larger than his thumb, turning it about in his huge hands. "Oilskin sealed shut with tar. Entirely waterproof. Bright man, Mr. Mason…" Mr. Holmes took up the scissors again, and although the thick oil-treated cotton cloth made a tougher job for them than the worn fabric, he managed to slit enough so that he could pull out the thin leather within.

The co-ordinates had not been written but rather branded into the material, so even if water had managed to infiltrate the barrier of oilskin and tar it would not have ran. I imagined that the waterproofing was more to protect it from mould.

"This is it." I was surprised to hear Mr. Holmes's voice drop beneath its usual level. "This is where the Ruby is, that blasted stone that so many people were killed over…"

"The majority of people are killed over things even sillier," I offered, hating to see him looking so down-trodden although I could hardly blame him. He had stated off-handily before I went to fetch the scissors that his brother and the doctor should have been back by now, and Miss Eve still burned under her blankets. The triumph of discovering the location of the stone was a poor off-set to those events.

"Sir, should I go inform Scotland Yard that your brother and Dr. Watson have not yet returned?" I approached, knowing it was best not to question his concerns outright. Asking him to wear his emotions on his sleeve was the quickest way to anger Mycroft Holmes.

"No… Not yet, Trevor." He seemed very old at that moment; as worn as the stuffed rabbit lying open between us. "Not just yet. We'll give them a bit more time. Sherlock will be thorough about his search. He knows we cannot let him slip through the cracks again."

"Sir, perhaps a hot bath, a shower even, would do you good." The wariness remained in my tone, as I was well aware that I was his secretary, not his physician. Still, his well-being was at least partially in my hands, and it would do no one any good if he became exhausted and ill. "I can watch Eve, sir, while I sew Bunny back up."

The heavy man looked as if he were about to protest, but then he gave a thoroughly relenting sigh, rising to his feet. "I won't be long… Just… Keep her comfortable, and if she coughs you might need to lift her up, rub her back a bit to help the congestion…"

"I've presided over sick children before, sir," I assured him. I myself had been quite ill as a child, adding to my knowledge of quite a few medical techniques. While most secretaries did not need to know anything beyond basic first aid, when working for Mr. Mycroft Holmes it never hurt to know something.

"Yes… Yes, I know… I won't be long…" He made a move as if to touch Eve, but then stopped, perhaps being aware of the expression of affection in my presence, and then merely plodded off to the bathroom.

Despite all the horrible happenings, it was beyond me to restrain a smile. I had worked for Mr. Holmes for nearly four years, and in that time he gave no hints that he would gracefully tolerate a child, let alone allow his heart to be grasped so firmly by one.

At the same time, however, I knew that there was no use in denying the inevitable. Eve would return to the orphanage as soon as she was able (I ignored the part of my mind that chimed in _"If she even lives."_), and my employer would be himself once more. Not a bad situation, a comfortable situation, and yet that detoured brush had said more than he would have liked it to say; his concern for her overrode his icy shell.

Amusing, if nothing else.

Removing the small envelope of sewing equipment from my jacket pocket (one always had to be prepared, after all, and nothing annoyed me more than tears), I set to repairing Bunny's injury, taken bravely in the pursuit of justice. My stitch was much smaller and neater than Dr. Watson's surgical bindings, and I was quick with my hands when it came to such tasks, and therefore the toy was drying once more on a towel before long.

Repacking the envelope, my gaze shot sideways when I heard movement from the bed. Eve was stirring, her eyes open and following my movements.

I wrapped the rabbit more firmly in the towel, taking it over to her and letting her embrace it with weak arms. "Here you go, Miss Eve. I knew how much you would miss it."

The smile on her face shone through the flush of fever, and I knew that it would have been worth pneumonia to return the toy to her. "Mr. Holmes is just taking a bath, he'll be back soon. We found the location of the Ruby, Miss Eve! Isn't that wonderful?"

Dark eyes that had almost been half shut widened and her head tilted sideways in questioning.

I gave her bunny a tap on the head. "The co-ordinates were right with you the whole time, and none of us even knew it! It's going to be okay, Miss Eve. We're going to find the Ruby and bring Mr. Sinclair to justice."

The child nodded, although she did not seem so sure. When the bathroom door opened and my employer emerged, hair damp but looking far less highly-strung, I could literally see her bruised and gaunt face light up. With energy I did not know she had, she jumped out from under the covers, made it across the length of the bed before I could grab her and flung herself into Mr. Holmes's arms.

The huge man's expression was one of shock at first as he secured his grip around her, but then one of concern when her mouth opened in a silent cry of pain and tears welled in her eyes. "Of course that hurt, you daft creature," he spoke, his tones far kinder than his words. "You have a set of bruised ribs and your arm's been damaged again, and you're ill. You can't be fooling about like that."

She continued to cling to him as tightly as a burr as he carried her over to the bed, sitting on its edge. When she refused to be removed, he merely gathered some of the blankets and wrapped them tightly around her.

"You need liquids; dehydration is the last thing you need right now. Perhaps Mr. Trevor will go fetch some fresh tea? Oh, and get me some paper and a pen, won't you? I need to contact Inspector Lestrade; I've only just thought of something."

I gave a quick nod, heading out the door, sparing a glance at Mr. Holmes cradling the broken little child in his arms. The scene was not a natural one, and yet something about it seemed so sincere.


	29. People Who Keep Dogs

_"I loathe people who keep dogs. They are cowards who haven't got the guts to bite people themselves." - Author Unknown_

**Holmes**

My dismay at finding that Sinclair's debilitating 'accident' had been just another enormous lie was quashed under the sensation of blood running across the back of my hand and the sense that this was not exactly a promising situation.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Watson make a dive for Callaway, who had started to crawl for my lost pistol. Thus assured of that quarter's security, I dodged a swing from Sinclair and snatched a pike of my own from the weaponry adorning the walls, whirling 'round and standing at bay – only just in time to dodge another sharp blow from the man. Fair play was obviously not in the man's vocabulary, not that I should have expected anything more.

I blocked the next blow and for a few moments the only sounds in my immediate perception were the clangs of metal upon metal and grunts from my opponent. I blocked a slashing blow at my legs, only barely deflecting his weapon's razor-sharp head against the wall, putting a jagged slit in the wall-paper.

Sinclair stepped back, looking at me with eyes that may have been praising had they not been full of so much hate. "The Doctor's accounts of your skill with various weapons are not as exaggerated as I thought, Holmes."

He was trying to distract me, as I belatedly realised when the pike came suddenly stabbing at my shoulder – I had just enough time to duck and weave away. I blocked a vicious swipe at my torso and returned the blow, but Sinclair deflected it with more ease than I had been – obviously the man was expert at his violent pastime.

And expert in his verbal barrage as well.

"But I rather think other items of note in those stories are rather exaggerated – surely a 'brain without a heart' would not be so eager to walk into this house, breaking the law in order to help that worthless girl?"

Block, block, swing – Sinclair jumped lithely out of harm's way and nearly stabbed me in the eye. I ducked and the blow went harmlessly into the wall, glancing off the plaster with a spray of dust.

"Or so perfectly willing to take a bullet for his friend? Come now, Mr. Holmes!"

I felt my jaw clench instinctively, swinging with all my strength at the man's smiling head. He jumped backwards, my momentum throwing me off-balance. I righted myself in time, however, and blocked again, the strength of his savage blows enough to send a jarring shock through my wrists.

"You see, that is your one mistake, Holmes. Why I have been able to beat you and no one else has been," he went on, that mocking voice ringing in my head.

Block, thrust. Dodge, block. I wanted to say "You haven't beat me yet.", but I lacked the breath to do so. He may have been aging, but he was incredibly agile, and I began to believe that this sparring match might end with a blade buried deep in me.

"Every man has a weakness, Holmes. Attachment leads to a dependency – and dependency is weakness," Sinclair said with a leer, stabbing at my neck with the weapon.

I blocked the blow and returned it with a glancing one of my own that made him grunt in pain, a dark stain showing through his sleeve where I had nicked him.

Dependency was a weakness?

"That is the whole reason you are here, is it not? That child has wormed her way into your affections and you yourself have become attached to her."

Much as I hated to admit the fact, he was quite correct – I was nowhere near as attached to the child as Watson but…

I ducked another blow, sternly bringing my attention back to the here and now – another break in my focus could very well mean my death. I was not so sure this would end in my favour even with my full attention, much less if I were distracted.

I heard a sharp clang across the room, and I automatically glanced up to see Watson scrambling after the gun, which the captive manservant had apparently kicked from his hand.

That was no ordinary trained staff, as we were discovering the hard way.

"There, you see? That illustrates my point exactly, Holmes," I heard the menace in Sinclair's voice and whirled back to face him, deflecting a slash at my face. "You depend far too much on him, you know. And it's a two-way street; you look after him when it is your own back you should be watching."

I bit my tongue, renewing my attack on the man in a series of well-timed thrusts that drove him back against the wall, to my exultation. But his face was still frozen in that amiable smile as he coolly blocked the last few strokes. This whole fight had taken less than a minute, but it seemed like a lifetime already.

"The secret to invincibility, Holmes, is having no attachments, you know. If all your assets are expendable, then the loss of them would not bother you in the least," said he with a smirk, "which is why I have remained untouchable for all this time."

"No longer," I growled, being forced to weave away from the villain as he brought the point of that pike dangerously close to my eyes.

"You were far stronger when you were alone, you know."

I nearly stopped, only deflecting the next thrust mechanically.

"No, really, Mr. Holmes. Think about it – alone you have no weakness. Your dependency on your…friend, has made you weak. Pathetic, really. Why you should deteriorate you powers with a dependency like that is beyond my ken."

Weakness…I have never been able to tolerate weakness. And it was true, I acted much more freely and carelessly when alone. But…

Too late, I realised he had finally succeeded in distracting my focus – no doubt what he had been planning all along the line. I only just saw a blur as the pike came slashing at my neck and shoulder; I had not enough time to do anything in defence. I instinctively threw my arm up in front of my face and felt a flash of biting agony as the blade ripped into the skin above my elbow, the impact spinning me round and knocking me sprawling on the carpet.

Something told me to get my senses back in order, as this was obviously not the only injury Sinclair meant to deal to me…but the room seemed to be spinning, and between that and the sickening smell and sight of more blood than I would prefer to see running out of my arm, I was rather dizzy, desperately fighting the blackness that curled 'round the edges of my senses.

I clutched my wounded arm reflexively, trying to regain my breathing, and finally shook my blurred vision clear enough to see Sinclair standing over me, his face complacently triumphant, the pike held upraised in his hand.

Somehow that fact did not seem to be as alarming as it probably should have been…I was not so sure that I was not dying already. Odd, how my thoughts and sight should be so foggy when I could hear perfectly clearly, Sinclair spouting some rubbish about victory.

As the shock wore off within a matter of seconds, I finally could see perfectly clearly and think lucidly as well. If I could roll to the side when he brought the weapon down –

But there was a suddenly rattling of chain, and a vicious snarling sound that I recognised all too well. I saw Sinclair's face freeze in an expression of absolute the second he turned, and a moment later he gave an awful scream that will ring forever in my memory as the vicious brute of a guard dog came flying over my prostrate form, knocking the man to the ground and sinking its long fangs into his arm. Sinclair screamed in pain as the dog shook the arm viciously between its jaws. Strange, that the thing should be loose at so opportune a moment…

**Watson**

I found that Callaway was not a man to give up easily; when I attempted to hinder Sinclair, the man grabbed me by the ankle. Not an intelligent action on his part, and his howls rang out when I laid foot to his bleeding leg. I managed to tie him up with my cravat and handkerchief only barely. This fellow was annoyingly persistent against pain and blood loss.

I barely heard Sinclair's voice, and yet the foreboding sounds of metal upon metal spoke of little time for me to act. I could not place the revolver at the moment, and I was under no delusions that I had time enough to find it. There was another weapon in the room, however.

As Sinclair shoved my dear friend with his boot, calmly spouting some drivel about victory in a voice that fairly dripped with maniacal triumph, I crept to the side and came up behind the guard dog, which was now straining at its chain and growling ferociously in the direction of its master. Pray heaven it did not decide to turn round before I got there…

But no, it was to intent upon watching the man who had abused it for so long raise that pike, intent on dealing the final blow to my dearest friend. Out of my peripheral, I saw Holmes's head raise feebly from the floor, his eyes taking on a frantic look as Sinclair raised the pike, razor-sharp point downward. Then I reached the dog and unsnapped the chain from its collar, springing back out of its way the instant after.

Like a suddenly uncoiled spring, the brute bounded from the wall with a speed I never would have expected, giving such a ferocious snarling growl that Sinclair spun 'round on the instant. I saw his eyes fill with terror for the fraction of a second before the beast attacked, knocking the villain to the ground and sinking its huge jaws into the screaming man's arm.

But there was no time to think of that. I made a dash for Holmes, swallowing down my nausea at the sight of my wounded comrade. Across the room, Calloway was struggling furiously, and besides we had no idea if the dog would continue to maul a dead man or would turn its attentions upon us; I hoped the beast would go for the manservant before us, but we had to flee.

I slipped an arm under Holmes's unresponsive form and started to lift him, only to be surprised when his eyes fluttered open and he looked at me dazedly.

"Bravo, Watson," he muttered, his hand clenching convulsively on my arm.

"Can you walk?" I demanded, not having time for other words.

"We'll see, won't we?" he replied with a perfectly ghastly smile.

I pulled my uninjured arm over my shoulder and started for the door. My heart grew heavy when it was obvious that I was more dragging him than anything else.

The screams of the criminal mastermind reverberating through the room and making us both shudder. Then there was silence… I could guess that the animal had gotten its teeth into something more vital than his arm.

I more than half-carried him from the room, for he did not get his feet under him until we were in the hall, and then he took a bit of the weight off me, though he staggered drunkenly, leaning heavily on me. I prayed the wound he had sustained had avoided an artery, or the blood-loss could be serious.

I quickened my pace, pulling Holmes along with me. He had no energy for talking, and I had little to spare as we went as fast as his weakness would allow through the mansion, trying to find an exit. I saw light ahead, a watery glow that bespoke of rainy skies, and hurried toward it – thank heaven, it was the front door of this deathly place.

"Watson," he whispered faintly.

"Save your strength, Holmes," I said worriedly, as he stumbled once more.

"No, behind –" he gasped, "dog – barking."

So it was. Why…

Muffled barking, not snarling. That meant it no longer had a victim to work on…which could mean that Callaway –

I turned halfway and stopped, listening – and heard limping footsteps. That man was inhuman; being able to get loose from my hasty binds, shut the door on the dog, and come after us with two bullets in his body? I had not expected a man like Sinclair to hire someone who could not earn his keep, but to possess such stamina…

At the same time as this discouraging revelation, Holmes's arm began to slip from my shoulder and he sagged against me with a low gasp. I was about to pick him up outright when, to my astonishment, the door up ahead burst open and a group of drenched but very welcome figures appeared, pouring in through the opening and scattering in a defensive formation.

"Lestrade!" I gasped in surprise, as the bedraggled Inspector dashed towards us, followed by a trio of his men.

Then behind us I heard a thud, and I instinctively pushed Holmes up against the wall as Callaway appeared, limping heavily but brandishing a still very serviceable revolver that rightfully belonged to my friend.

Lestrade, for once in his life, actually was firmly on the ball, and had barked out an order to drop the weapon before the man had even raised the gun. I desperately hoped Callaway would surrender, as being caught in a crossfire was not my idea of a pleasant situation.

Providence was evidently smiling on us, for the manservant glared for a moment, then dropped the pistol with a clank, sagging against the wall. I was forced to admire the man's endurance and loyalty to his master, but I had far more important things to think about. Holmes was still leaning against me, only half-conscious, and as Lestrade's men closed in on Callaway I lowered my wounded friend to the floor as gently as I could.

I was surprised to see him open his eyes and peer up at the worried official standing over us. "Lestrade, what about your precious warrant?" he murmured with the faintest of smiles.

I took the offered handkerchief from the man and used it to tighten the improvised tourniquet on Holmes's arm, glad to see a bit of colour returning to his face, now that the tension and the shock had eased slightly. The wound appeared to have missed the main artery, for which I was devoutly grateful, and I sighed with intense relief as Lestrade responded to Holmes's query.

"Your brother sent us here, Mr. Holmes," the man replied, crouching down beside us. "Since the mansion was in the name of Sinclair's charity, not he himself, all we had to do was telegraph the head of the charity. He did not know there was anything to hide; he sent us permission to enter without hesitation. All legal and proper. Smart man, your brother, Mr. Holmes."

"So he has made sure to tell me on numerous occasions," my friend muttered, glancing at my anxious face. "For heaven's sake, Watson, you look worse than I feel. Lestrade, have any of your men a brandy bottle?"

I glared at him, but could not repress a sigh of relief – if he could be petulant then he would no doubt be fine, in time.

"Sinclair is in a back room, Inspector," I said, tightly wrapping the gash in Holmes's arm with an obliging few constables' handkerchiefs until I could get the necessary equipment for treatment, "but be careful, there's a vicious brute of a dog in there as well."

The Inspector's face was the facial version of curdled milk. He likely had an approximate picture of what he would find behind that door; most dogs were notoriously messy eaters. "Oh, _lovely_. I take it Sinclair's dead, then?"

"I certainly hope so," I muttered. Holmes winced (and not from the pain in his arm), and Lestrade's thin eyebrows shot up to his hairline. "I give you my word, the only crime we are guilty of here is trespassing, Inspector," I hastily amended, realising how my words must have sounded to a policeman.

"Well, it saves a bit of paperwork if he is," was the good man's only comment.

My friend and I were silent as the inspector ordered his men down the hallway, following them. It was Holmes who spoke first.

"What's wrong, my dear fellow?"

Not wanting to meet his gaze entirely, I continued to fuss with his bandaging. "Sinclair. He used me to distract you – and nearly killed you."

"Yes, he did," He saw no point in denying the fact, at any rate.

"He was right, you know," I said hoarsely, forcing myself to meet those stone gray eyes. "You are stronger on your own."

"Perhaps. But the same could be said of you, you know. Watson, there are always risks, and there always will be. I knew that when I took up the detective's mantle, and I knew that when I welcomed your fists into the fray. I will always fret over you, just as you will always fuss over me, but all things considered…" A smile eased its way onto his weary face despite the events of the day. "I would not change a moment, Watson. There are likely times when I would have died without you. If your companionship creates an Achilles heel, well… I shall simply have to guard my feet that much more."

I knew he was trying to make me laugh, but all I could manage was a weak chuckle. It was a very genuine heartfelt chuckle, to my credit. "Do you think you can walk the distance to a carriage, dear fellow?"

"I will do my best, Watson. There is a child not too far away who will be grateful to see your face."

As it turned out, Eve's exhaustion won out against her worry. When we knocked on the hotel room to be let in, Trevor opened the door and hissed at us to be quiet.

"I've already aquired the adjoining room," he whispered, pointing to the door leading into the next room. "But please be silent; Miss Eve only just drifted off."

The creature was cocooned in blankets, peacefully slumbering against Mycroft, whose head was propped against the headboard in sleep. Trevor had thrown a blanket over the pair of them, but it was obvious that both needed the rest.

Once I had settled Holmes in the next room, I tentatively checked her temperature. Her fever was steadily dropping.

When I was a boy in Scotland, I once heard someone say there was a special angel for children.


	30. Men Are Cruel

_"Men are cruel, but Man is kind." - Rabindranath Tagore_

********

Watson

The only thing I regretted about that night was that the dog had to be shot. I knew it was vicious and beyond all help, but he had sent such a horrible man from the world, and for that the wretched creature had my gratitude.

Not all was smooth sailing from that point, but somehow we managed to remain afloat.

Eve ended up developing a chest infection, nowhere near fatal but it caused her great discomfort and put an alarming wheeze in her breath. She made the trip from the hotel to a London hospital in a Whitehall hansom, bundled thoroughly in blankets, clinging onto my jacket with what little strength she possessed. She slept most of the way. One could not see most of the scenery through the rain, anyway.

Holmes, having been patched up as tightly as I could manage the night before, followed her example. Thankfully, however, he did not do it on my lap.

We admitted two people that day. It would have been three had Holmes followed doctor's orders, but he had never been apt at that. Against his will, Mr. Trevor was taken under medical care. He was running a slight fever and had been coughing frequently and violently, and if it had gone untreated it likely would have resulted in pneumonia. Even while as sick as a dog, the man insisted it had been worth it to find the rabbit.

I had to agree with him after we were told that the coordinates of the Black Prince's Ruby had been hidden within it the whole time.

Trevor was discharged to rest at home after two days. Eve remained a week and a half. Her temperature would fluctuate wildly; she could be as hot as a furnace one hour and almost as cold as a corpse the next. Her coughs pained anyone who heard them, and her appetite was almost non-existent. While I had expected her to protest being cooped up in a hospital room, for the first while she merely lay listlessly, only looking our way when we spoke and sometimes not even then.

We sat with her, sometimes together and sometimes in shifts, but we never left her alone. Partly, this was for her comfort. Something deeper, however, spoke of another attack, another snatching. That never came, however.

As children often do, however, she retaliated. Her fever was banished once and for all, her wheezing grew gentler and then was gone, and her coughing ceased, her lungs free once more. Her appetite also returned, although that may have had something to do with the fact that Holmes forwent the lacklustre hospital cuisine when he was alone with her. He never outright admitted to it, but nor did he make any attempt to mask the smell of a lemon custard when I came to relieve him one evening.

Halfway through her confinement, she was left with me one night when the Holmes brothers went to oversee a very important digging expedition. Although we had attempted to keep hushed about it, Eve knew the purpose of the late-night venture and was a hellion to calm when she knew action was going on. By then strong enough to put crayon to paper and proficient enough to write out short sentences, she made it very clear she wanted to be out there, not stuck in bed. Her mood was not improved by the fact that I found her rage rather adorable.

When she woke in the morning to see the massive red spinel (the gem's name a misnomer) in its heavy gold settings borrowed briefly before returning to its rightful place, I believe this alone sped her recovery.

"It was buried right in the middle of our own city all along," grumbled Mycroft to me, looking irate at being so dubbed. "Mason was often in charge of construction; he knew just where to place it during a project to make sure it ended up under a sidewalk."

When the girl was finally well enough to be discharged but not yet well enough to even consider going back to the countryside, her bed again was made on Pall Mall. Trevor had taken it upon himself to prepare dinner that night. Or rather, arrange it. The food itself was from a very well-known restaurant that no doubt would not lower itself to packaging the fine cuisine in cardboard boxes unless a government seal was flashed before them.

Eve fell asleep without even finishing the tart before her, a sign of sheer exhaustion. When I tucked her under the covers with her rabbit, I kissed her forehead and found not a trace of hotness. I returned to the sitting room all but floating on air.

When I saw Trevor, he was mimicking my expression, and he gestured at me to come forward and sit, as the siblings were already doing. "Dr. Watson, I believe I know why you hold such affinity for Miss Eve."

I arched an eyebrow, settling beside Holmes. "Oh…?"

"Oh, yes. She is a fellow Scot, although she'd hardly remember it. She was born in Melrose, but lived in a town called Deal from six months on."

My face blanched at this information. Not even Holmes was so good with deductions, so I knew what this must have meant. "You've found who she is."

The man was practically trembling with joy like a hunting terrier bringing a fowl back to his master. "Her real name is Tessa Maclean, date of birth April twenty-second. She is five, but not by much. Parents are Bruce Mclean and the late Angelica Mclean."

The three of us were silent until Mycroft demanded "Why did you find this now? You assured me you had every record checked!"

The secretary was in too good of spirits to be cowed even by his employer. "I searched missing children notices and active birth certificates before, sir. I realized, however, that if a child had been issued a death certificate, the birth certificate would no longer be active in our files! A parent might have had them declared dead without a body for closure." He fished out several newspaper clipping and an aged photograph from his portfolio. "I had these dug up out of the Deal archives and mailed here. Two-year-old Tessa McLean went missing from her family's estate and the remains of the dress she was wearing turned up in the river three days later. Her nursemaid was jailed a year and a half for neglecting her, although she swears she was alone for no more than a few moments. Mrs. Mclean, her mother… She committed suicide six months later. The girl was deemed dead the following year."

"You should have told me when you first had an inkling of this, Trevor." The elder Holmes almost sounded threatening. Snatching the photograph with much more aggression than came naturally to him, he displayed it to us. A familiar, if not much younger, face stared back at us, a toddler clothed in lace besides a doll that was a queen compared to her peasant Bunny.

This he did buckle to. "I… I just wanted to get everything ready, Mr. Holmes. It was a bit of a surprise. Besides, I wanted to wait until Miss E… Miss _Tessa_, I mean, was out of the hospital. I didn't want to cause her any shock."

Tessa… Testing it in my mind, I tried to attach it to the child and yet I found I could not. She had been Eve to us ever since Mycroft had deciphered that drawing in the dirt.

He still glared, and I could see Trevor all but edging away. "I assume you ran a background check on this Mr. Mclean?"

"Y-Yes, sir. Of course." He shuffled through some of the papers. "No criminal records, no mentions of his name in any unsavoury activities, and we don't have a private file on him at Whitehall. But…"

"But…?" Holmes prompted, leaning forward with a curious expression on his sharp features.

"Well, I inquired about him to one of the contacts near Deal, and he seems to be a bit of a recluse. The locals say that he rarely left the house after his daughter went missing, and even less when his wife died. As for Mrs. Mclean… There was some sort of general consensus that she was unwell mentally even before the disappearance."

"I think that he should be visited beforehand," I managed to get out through my surprise. "Before we even tell Eve about him."

"Tessa," corrected the secretary, withdrawing when both Holmes and Mycroft glared furiously at him.

"I agree fully," the large man sighed, rising from the deep armchair. "Sherlock, you and the doctor should go when convenient. If this man is truly her father… Well, then I suppose Miss Tessa Mclean will have quite a happy ending."

There was something in his voice that did not make him sound truthful.

****

Holmes

Tomorrow was convenient. I was burning to see what kind of man could be the father of such an amusing little creature, and wondered if a sort of friendship might be struck up. I knew Watson would be much assured if the girl was going back into loving arms, and it was all the better if we could keep contact with her.

No matter who she was going to, I could tell that my friend was reluctant to part with Eve (I reserved the right to call her so for the time being) a second time, especially after what had happened last time they went their separate ways. As I had the last time, I felt a pang of pain on his behalf. I even found that I did not want to see her go; it would have been most interesting to see what kind of woman she would become. With the proper hand on her shoulder, she might even become respectable some day.

When we descended from the hansom boarded from the train station (my injury giving a pang to remind me that after a week and a half, it was still loitering about) in front of a huge, well-kept house. It was bordering on being a manor, really.

"A home worthy of her," I joked, trying to bring the slightest of smiles to Watson's face. I failed, and so I merely followed him to the massive front doors.

A butler greeted us quite amiably and attempted to deter us with the same friendly smile. He could not ignore a letter from the upper ranks of the government, however, and reluctantly led us up a flight of stairs. We were shown into a large room where sun streamed in from nearly an entire wall of windows, pooling on the floor and the sun-bleached furniture.

A rather tall man stood there, back to us, gazing out the window at the pond full of ducks that were obviously for look rather than nourishment. When his servant announced us, he inclined his head towards us.

"I am sorry, gentlemen, I have a terrible memory for people." His voice was even and collected, tinted heavily with a refined Scottish brogue, if somewhat hoarse, almost as if from disuse. "Should your names or faces be familiar?"

Although my name was widespread, I could not expect every man in London to have read the stories. If anything, I was a bit grateful this man did not delve into such romantics. "We have never met before, Mr. Mclean, if that is what you mean."

"I did not think we had, but what knows a man of his own mind these days?" As he turned to face us outright, I found myself seeking his links to Eve. I found them. Although his hair was prematurely greying (the man was still quite young, perhaps a few years Trevor's senior), what was still dark was the same shade of brown as his daughter's. There was a great resemblance in their faces as well; that solemn look that was not so much dreary as thoughtful. There was no doubt that this man was her relative.

"We were wondering if you might remember another name better," Watson spoke up softly. "Tessa."

Mclean visibly stiffened at this, turning his back once more towards the window, the pond and the ducks. "If you know her name, you know she died three years ago. The nurse was punished, though God knows it was not enough. The loss took my wife, took every ounce of happiness out of my life… What more do you want to know?"

"Mr. Mclean… Your daughter is very much alive."

His reaction was not what I expected; he did not even turn again, merely inhaled deeply. "Her death certificate was signed, gentlemen."

"She is alive, sir," I spoke up, frowning at his inflexible tone. "We think what happened was that she was snatched away and they threw her dress in the river to make it appear as an accident. You see, some time ago we found…"

"If I tell you the truth, will you leave?"

My eye's met Watson's, and a sense of dread crept further and further up me like an ivy vine climbing a brick chimney. Something was not at all right.

"No one will ever believe you. If you bring me before the courts, I shall deny it. If it will make you leave and never return, however, I am willing to give you gentlemen a little wisdom." He glanced back and apparently took our stunned look as one of confirmation. "The name Tessa means 'fourth child'. My wife had three miscarriages before she was born. The babe came sideways down the womb, the doctor had to perform a caesarean section. Angelica lived through it physically, but she never did come back from the pain of the labour and the shock of the surgery."

The picture was clear; a young mother already weakened in body and mind by so many miscarriages, the pain of such an impossible situation… It was not hard to imagine insanity ensuing.

"She was as much of an angel as her namesake before that child was born to her, gentlemen. After, she was like a woman possessed. She would not speak anything of the daughter that had tortured her so. She could not stand to hear her name; I referred to her as Eve, the bringer of all human suffering. She wept and clawed at her face when she heard her cried; I hired a doctor to have her muted. Her condition grew worse, and so I sent her away. It was too late, however… My angel's spirit was gone the moment that child laid its roots, and I should have known her body was not long behind."

Watson, usually the very picture of composure, was very nearly trembling with rage. "You _sent her away_? Your _daughter_, and you sent her away like… Like a misbehaving dog! An innocent woman was jailed because of it! Did it not hurt you to just hand your daughter over to strangers, trusting that they would take her where they said they would!"

His face was as unchanging as a stone gargoyle guarding a cathedral, and just as solemn. "You were introduced as a doctor, yes? Then as a doctor, you must know that a man can only comprehend a certain amount of pain. After that… There is nothing. Not a pleasant nothing, but nothing all the same. Had Tessa kept her voice, my wife would have silences her cries. Had she remained in this house, she would leave it only wrapped in a white sheet."

I could see that it was taking every ounce of my friend's self-restraint not to knock this man over where he stood, and while I kept an eye on him and knew I would have to restrain him if he attempted anything, I knew that this was not my battle, that I had no part in this. Watson needed these answers, and it was he who would get them.

"Do you have any idea what she has been through, Mr. Mclean? What she endured? When we found her, she was little more than a living skeleton! The man who came to possess her had her left out in the rain, beaten and bruised. She was branded like cattle! She did not know a kind hand from birth to the moment that I picked her up!"

Mclean turned. His eyes were blue, not at all like Eve's, and yet the expression in them was not entirely unfamiliar. "Is she in your care now?"

My friend blinked, thrown off-guard. "What do you…"

"You decide her fate now, what happens to her. Correct?"

"Correct, but…"

"And are you decent men?"

"Of course we are…!"

We saw only his back again. "Then she is better off. I do not wish to hear of her hardships, gentlemen. My heart was buried with my wife, and I would like it to remain there. I do not want to see her, and I do not want letters or telegrams of any kind about her. Do what you will with her, call her whatever name you please." He was silent for a long while, but just as we moved to leave he spoke once more. "Tell me one thing, however… She used to sit by the pond for hours, just watching… Does she still watch the ducks like that, or do you know?"

The doctor sighed, the effort implying his chest was made of lead. "Yes. And the swans, and anything else with feathers she comes across."

"Interesting to know. Good day, gentlemen. And good life."

The butler led us out, and we departed from the huge, grim building as quickly as we could. Once make inside the hansom, Watson buried his face in his hands and he remained that way for quite some time.


	31. As It Will Be

_"No sensible decision can be made any longer without taking into account not only the world as it is, but the world as it will be." - Isaac Asimov_

****

Holmes

Mycroft had evidently been watching for us (it was well on midnight when we finally arrived in London), for he had the door to his rooms open before we even reached the landing.

"Well?"

Watson sent me a pleading glance which took no great deduction to understand, and at my nod he feebly smiled his thanks and walked past Mycroft, not stopping in the sitting room but heading back to Eve's bedroom without speaking a word. In fact, he had not spoken a word since we had left Mclean's house - which worried me more than if he had attempted to throttle the man or to snap at me.

My brother's eyes followed him, narrowing, and then turned back to pierce me as I shut the door.

"What happened?"

It was the work of a few minutes to relay the gist of what had transpired to him, and I was rather gratified to see something of the same sickening look wash over him that my dear friend was yet wearing, even after several hours.

"Her _father_ had her silenced, not Sinclair or one of his cohorts!?"

I resisted the urge to squirm at my brother's unusually angry expression - usually such was only directed at me, only rarely at someone else. Again I would have to be the voice of reason until the tension had diffused in both him and Watson. But I was saved from answering by my friend's voice.

"Such a man is not worthy to have a child at all, or even to have been born himself."

I started despite myself, for it was the first thing I had heard out of him since that sordid interview. He was standing in the doorway, to all outward appearances calm and composed; but I could see the haunted look in his eyes as he entered and sat rather rigidly beside me on the settee. Brother mine made no comment on the matter, and for several deathly moments silence settled in an almost choking cloud on the room.

"Would you like a drink, Doctor?" finally Mycroft offered.

"No."

"Yes," I interjected firmly, ignoring the frown I received.

"I believe we all could use one," my brother muttered, heaving himself out of his chair and (surprisingly) waving off my offer of assistance.

"Are you going to be all right?" I finally asked in an undertone, more worried about my friend than I should have liked to admit in front of my brother. As Sinclair had said, attachment was a weakness, but a necessary one - however, that never eased the possible pain that we knew could come along with such.

"That depends on what happens to her now," he replied, keeping his eyes on Mycroft's rug.

Indeed - what were we going to do with the girl now? I had the feeling that none of us were going to much enjoy the coming conversation, necessary though it was.

Mycroft returned with the drinks, passing ours to us before returning to the sideboard and retrieving his own, sinking back into his armchair with a grateful sigh.

"Well, let us get it over with," he growled at last, when neither Watson nor I made a move to start the discussion. "You both know there is only one alternative if her father is unfit to take care of her."

"We've been through this already, and you saw what happened after that alternative!"

I winced at Watson's tone, but he was right to a point. I was torn between knowing in my mind that the only realistic thing to do would be to send Eve back to a Whitehall orphanage and on the other hand, the feeling of loyalty to my friend's attachment to the child, though any other idea about the girl's upbringing made absolutely no sense logically.

"Doctor, I am not overly keen on the idea myself," my brother sighed, "but she needs to be with children her own age, and then eventually to be placed with a family, to lead a fairly normal life!"

"And what about what Sinclair and Jackyl said?" Watson's words were dropping fast and clearly - obviously he had been thinking about this for far too long on the drive back and had been formulating his replies then. "What about the idea that a child handled with hatred grows up to be hateful, that a mistreated child makes for a warped adult? What if they're right? What if she ends up just like that dog; nothing but rage that needed to be put down?"

"She is not going to be mistreated any longer, Doctor - every vestige of that network has been destroyed, there is no further danger!"

"Do you think she's going to view abandonment as being well-treated, Mycroft?! There are more ways to hurt a child than breaking her wrist and leaving her for dead in a field!"

"Watson -"

"I am not finished, Holmes. That child's barely out of the woods now, Mycroft - getting dumped in an orphanage will do nothing to help her lead a normal life as you said you want her to, those people know next to nothing of her history and she never will receive the personal attention needed to erase the memories of - of what has been done to her," Watson's voice shook on that last line and I laid a hand on his arm.

"Doctor, I understand your arguments," my brother said quietly, "confound it, I don't like the idea of letting her go any more than you do! But we've already been through this - even here, this environment is far from healthy, and your flat is even worse. It simply is not practical!"

"To blazes with being practical! We're talking about a child's life and future here!"

"We cannot wrap our entire lives around a girl, no matter how attached we are. It simply is not feasible!" my brother retorted.

"Gentlemen," I interjected in a more controlled tone.

"What, Sherlock?" my brother demanded.

"We are being observed, which you would have noticed before now had you not been so intent on out-arguing each other," I said dryly, gesturing toward the hall where a nightgown-clad figure was standing in the shadows, ever-present bunny and crayon clutched in her good arm.

"Oh, good Lord," Mycroft groaned, no doubt hoping as I was that the girl had not heard much of their rather loud discussion.

Watson shook off my arm and rose, going to Eve. And again I saw a pang of what I assumed was remorse cross my brother's face as we saw the way the girl's worn face lit up with a smile and she held her good arm up to my friend.

"Sherlock," he said pleadingly, "you've been pointedly absent from this conversation."

"For one thing, I am not imbecilic enough to get in the way of an argument between my brother and my dearest friend - the two most stubborn people I know, besides myself. For another, I am undecided on the matter," I declared sensibly, hoping to attack this with logic and not with emotion now.

"Have either of you thought about giving _her _a say in the matter?" my friend asked, his voice tinged with anger as he sat back down beside me with the girl on his lap, "since it is _her _life we are so intent on moulding without her leave."

I glanced at the girl, feeling my face crease in a smile despite myself (three lemon custards in as many days appeared to have netted me a very enthusiastic little friend). Eve returned the grin, shoving the rabbit into my hands as Watson handed her his notebook.

"Eve, we are talking about where you are going to live from now on, now that all those horrible men are gone," my friend said to the girl seriously, "and Mr. Mycroft wants you to live with a family - a mother and father, maybe a sister or brother. Would you like that?"

I restrained a smile as a very large NO in red crayon appeared on the page in front of the girl, and Mycroft mopped his forehead uneasily with his massive handkerchief.

"But you have to have a family, Eve," Watson said softly, "or else you may have to stay in the orphanage."

The girl's dark eyes welled up with tears.

"Oh, heaven, I can't take this now, please," I heard my dear friend mutter desperately.

"Eve, look at me," I directed her attention away from Watson.

The girl obeyed - she really was a lovable creature..._lovable_? Where had that word come from, in _my _vocabulary? I shook myself and went on, using a sensible approach for she appeared to be extremely intelligent and it had worked before.

"Eve. You have to live with someone, either a family or an orphanage," I said slowly, firmly, "there is no other option."

Clearly, in the girl's mind there was, because she scribbled a crayoned 'Doctor' on the page in front of here, and Watson closed his eyes, drawing a deep shaky breath.

"You cannot live with us, my dear, we would not be able to take care of you. It would not even be any fun, you would not have any children to play with or any toys..." I said slowly, looking into those dark eyes and feeling even my icy reserves start to melt. Confound it!

Eve's lower lip trembled miserably, and she clutched at Watson's jacket with her free hand before writing a shaky "stay with you" on the paper. I sighed.

"It is not possible, Eve. It is not that we do not want you, but we just cannot keep you in Baker Street - we don't even have a spare bed," I said, rapidly growing frustrated with my efforts to connect with the child by logical arguments.

Those dark eyes flitted over to my brother, who was fidgeting uncomfortably in his massive chair. And sure enough, the next word to appear on the page was 'Mycroft?'.

Watson glanced at me, then at my brother, whose face had flushed more than I had ever seen.

Eve squirmed on my friend's lap to be let down, and she went to Mycroft, holding up her arms pleadingly.

"Oh, for the love of heaven," I heard an exasperated, desperate mutter before he picked her up awkwardly and sat her on his lap.

"Look here, Eve," he said at last. How he could ignore that gaze would be more than I could fathom, had I not known that his powers of detachment were even greater than my own; I knew deep down he had grown rather fond of the girl but he spoke firmly. "We know what is best for you, whether you believe us or not. Someday you will know that what we're doing is right. You must go to that orphanage, my dear, and eventually to a family. You need a good future, other children...you need parents, Eve."

"And not like her biological ones, God forbid," I heard a hoarse whisper beside me.

Despite his firmness, when Eve's face crumpled at his words and she buried her head in my brother's ample dressing-gown, he looked over at me in a mixture of exasperation, uncertainty, and helplessness.

I only raised a brow in response.

"Now see here," Mycroft continued, screwing his courage to the sticking place and speaking as he might to an inferior employee, even though his eyes mourned the very words he spoke. "You are going to be taken in by a perfectly normal family, and you are going to become a perfectly normal child, and that's _final_."


	32. Words Fail

_"These gems have life in them; their colors speak, say what words fail of. " - George Eliot_

****

Eve

If you add red to yellow, it turns into orange. If you add two to three, it turns into five. If you add tears and a trembling lip to a no, it sometimes turns into a yes.

Mycroft had started out so sure, insisting that it was entirely impossible, and yet within ten minutes he had broken down to "Well... I mean, between the three of us... Perhaps if we found a part-time nanny..."

I had hugged him so tightly around his neck that he had protested that he couldn't follow through with the promise if I strangled him to death.

I did not see why today was so important. All that was happening was that we were all to meet Mr. Mycroft's boss. Mr. Trevor met his boss every day, so why was this any different?

It must have been, because everyone was making sure I was correct in every way. My hair was scrubbed so much in the bath that my scalp was sore. Mr. Trevor had searched endlessly for the perfect outfit, a white dress with more layers of lace than I had ever seen before, along with white shoes, which I thought only royalty were allowed to wear. He tied white ribbons into my hair, fussing with them until the second before we got out of the hansom.

Dr. Watson said I looked like a little angel. Mr. Sherlock said I looked like a duckling.

Mr. Mycroft had spent a great amount of time teaching me to curtsy properly and giving me what he called a crash course in high etiquette. He seemed so nervous about the event. Mr. Trevor was even worse, but surely the boss of his boss was something to fear. He had insisted I had to leave Bunny at home. I refused. Mr. Trevor had forseen this and purchased a small purse to match my dress in which I could keep him out of sight.

I had thought Mycroft's home was huge, but when we entered the gates I could not believe what I saw. Surely more than one family lived in a place like this. It looked like it could house the better part of London.

Even Mr. Sherlock seemed off, something that was very odd. Mr. Trevor made a move to fuss with my hair again but Mycroft batted his hand away. We followed the servant down the hallway and led us out into the most beautiful garden.

Everything was green except for the roses, which were all kinds of colours. Everything seemed so neat and beautiful that I began to doubt we were even in London anymore.

A woman trailed by attendants approached us. My guardians bowed at the waist, and I dipped into what I hoped was a perfect curtsey. I knew Mycroft would not be mad if it was not, but I wanted to please him so badly.

I must have been correct, for she smiled at me before turning her attention to Sherlock and Dr. Watson. "I have heard so much about the pair of you, and yet we have not met up until now."

The doctor bowed his head. "It is an honour to meet with you, Your Highness."

"Gentlemen, you have time and time again risked life and limb to help preserve the peace and order of your country. The honour is assuredly mine. I am most sorry you were injured on my family's behalf." Her eyes panned over all of us. "That most of you were injured on my family's behalf. Your brother, no doubt, is not used to such things."

Mr. Mycroft's face reddened slightly as she strode before him. "It was a manageable side effect, Your Majesty."

"Being shot twice is hardly a side effect, Mr. Holmes." Was she laughing? It sounded like it. I did not think very many people laughed at Mycroft. "Once again, you have proved yourself worthy of your position, and once again I am in your debt."

"The favour you bestowed was more than repayment, Your Majesty."

I knew what that favour was. There had been much protesting by Mycroft that adoption by an unmarried man took an unfeasible amount of time, and yet after receiving a sealed letter, the paperwork had gone through in a matter of days.

The woman nodded in Mr. Trevor's direction. "And the faithful secretary, silent as ever, sir."

The man gave a nervous nod and a gulp, face as red as a beet. Apparently something about this woman scared him, although I could not imagine what.

"Ah, well. Perhaps some day I will get a word or two out of you." Now her gaze dropped upon me, and a smile spread over her face. "This must be the little heroine that helped recover the missing Ruby."

I felt my face tinge as well. I did not feel that I had a large part in it; I had only told Sherlock and the others what I knew, and I was glad to do that.

"I cannot express how sorry I am that you suffered because of one of my family's heirlooms, Miss Eve, but I am also very thankful that you helped to return it to its proper place. I'd like to give you a gift. It's not extravagant, you seem a but too practical for anything like that, but I do hope you like it."

One of her companions stepped forward with a small box, which she took from him. She knelt before me, waving off Mycroft when he offered to assist her. From it she drew a small silvery plate, made a bracelet by two lengths of links. A small, glittering ruby adorned one edge, and curved script stemmed out from it.

"My staff was informed as soon as your name was finalized," she smiled, fastening it around my wrist. "And I personally made sure that the spelling was right."

I had been given a choice of names. There was a time when I was once called Tessa, accordingly to them, but I picked Eve instead. It was quicker to write. A middle name would involve more choice, although I had a good idea.

Mycroft had not permitted me to pick the name I originally wanted. "It's a male name, Eve, and yes it makes a difference. I don't know why, it simply does!" He had offered the feminine version, and I had settled for that.

I turned my hand to look at the beautiful writing. EVE JOHANNA HOLMES. My name. Mr. Mycroft's last name, because his name was on my paperwork, and Dr. Watson's name as my middle name, because, according to Mycroft, not everything important was in paperwork.

Sherlock had pretended to be in great shock when he said that. Mycroft had then cuffed him upside the head.

"You have three of the most honourable men in London at your side now," the woman whispered to me, face still set in a kind smile. "It will be most interesting to see what you will grow up to achieve." With a sideways glance at Mycroft, she added "Be sure to keep an eye on him, hmm? He'd work himself to the grave if allowed to, and I need him around for quite a while yet."

I curtsied again in thanks, and grinned when she patted my head. I could see that Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes and Mycroft were smiling as well.

I still did not know just what to call them. Mycroft was legally my father now, I supposed, but a person could only have one father, and to call him that would be to deny Dr. Watson and Sherlock, something I never wanted to do. Besides, from what had been said about the man who was my father at the start, I did not want to connect any of them to him.

I was sure I would figure it out eventually, but for now their names were enough. They were my guardians and my protectors, and if a person can have three parents at once I suppose that was what they were. I did not know how good a job they would do (it was obvious even to me that they were nervous, Mycroft particularly), but I could be patient until they got the knack for it. They were the ones who would take me home (having a home in itself was new as), and I knew if I fell asleep in the hansom one of them would carry me to my bed. I knew that my name was Eve Johanna Holmes, and always would be. I knew that I would sleep in the last room on the left in an apartment on Pall Mall for quite some time.

Sherlock says that if I beg enough, Mycroft will let met have it redone in pink.

****

Watson

Eve fell asleep in the carriage, her head resting on the side. I gently drew her closer to me, knowing that her skull would rap sharply against the wood if we hit a bump, and the odds of hitting one was too high for me.

Mycroft watched my movements, watery eyes swirling with too many things for me to see. "What have we gotten ourselves into?" he spoke. I could not tell if he were about to laugh or weep.

Holmes, eloquent in speech as ever, gave a snort.

"This is hardly funny, Sherlock! Do you two realize what we have done? She's ours now, do you fully comprehend that? Every speck of her life is now our concern. We have no business raising a child."

I sighed, entirely content, stroking Eve's hair back and away from her face. "I know, Mycroft."

"We're going to make mistakes."

"What parent doesn't?"

"She'll hate all of us when she grows up."

"What well-adjusted adolescent doesn't?"

"You honestly think she's going to be well-adjusted?"

"Is anyone?"

He had no more arguments, and so he sat back with a deep sigh, almost a groan. I saw his gaze fall upon the silver bracelet hanging from the girl's wrist. "Well... Nothing to be done about it now, I suppose."

I glanced at Holmes and shared a smile with him. We both knew that was as much as a confession of happiness that we would get out of him for the time being. It was enough, however. Eve knew of his feelings, that much was apparent, and that was what mattered.

I had to agree with Mycroft; we were three bachelors. Our experience was limited to young patients and a hellish little brother. This was also no ordinary child. Her usual milestones and difficulties would be interwoven with the remains of the heartless abuse she had suffered through in silence. And yet we were doing this all the same.

Why?

The softly breathing form nestled in my lap was a better reason than all the rubies and spinels of the world combined.


End file.
